


A Place of Our Own

by flight_on_broken_wings



Series: What ISN'T Going into the Final Mission Report [2]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Apartment in Bed-Stuy, Avengers Movie Night, Clint Barton & Matt Murdock Friendship, Clint Barton Has Issues, Clint Barton Jumps Off Buildings, Clint Barton-centric, Clintasha Week, Drama, Everything Hurts, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Daredevil, Natasha Romanov Has Feelings, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Natasha Romanov-centric, POV Steve Rogers, Poker Nights, Post-Avengers (2012), Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Relationship Problems, Romance, fraction!hawkeye, shitty google translate, sometimes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 14:22:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 155,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7271767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flight_on_broken_wings/pseuds/flight_on_broken_wings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What exactly does Clint Barton do on his days off? Away from the Tower, the Avengers, away from SHIELD and running ops all over the globe, away from the flying bullets and aliens and hospitals, you might just find him at the top floor apartment of a big old building in Bedford-Stuyvesant (when he’s not kicking ass at Avengers Poker Night). The neighbors are friendly, his favorite other Hawkeye and Pizza Dog are there, his- well it’s not like they put a label on it- really good friend and partner and co-Avenger Natasha drops by when she can, and it’s usually pretty quiet. Besides the whole Russian tracksuit mafia and the occasional bit of superheroing on the side, it’s just the kind of downtime a guy could really use nowadays.</p><p>Except, nothing ever goes the way it should, so when relationship drama, shady government dealings, and a network of Hydra-sympathizing evil scientists set on creating a disastrous bio-weapon get involved, that much needed R&R tends to get disrupted. </p><p>Copyright 2016. All Rights Reserved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the worst guard dog, ever

**Author's Note:**

> Rated Mature for language and graphic descriptions of violence (which you can skip over, if you so wish)

It hadn’t been easy, reestablishing a life in the 21st century. However, by this point, Steve had worked out a comfortable place for himself; a routine, a purpose, and he had found a niche for himself on the line right between his job- working with SHIELD and leading the Avengers- and his friends and family- the Avengers themselves. New York had been the tip of the iceberg; the world still needed the Avengers for so much more. Yet, it had been the catalyst to pull this group of diverse, talented, and capable people together, even if it was sometimes a little crazy and they were all prone to infighting and some of them thrived off chaos. And, after New York, after Tony redesigned and refurbished the tower, they had never really left and gone their separate ways.

Tony had been kind and generous enough- and a small part of him thought perhaps lonely enough- to customize and prepare an entire floor of the tower for each of them, not to mention creating the communal floor with kitchen, living space, and entertainment center, and the floor with the gym, training equipment, and shooting ranges, as well as the multiple floors of Tony’s workshop and Banner’s lab. He had created a base of operations for the Avengers, and a home. 

Dr. Banner had accepted his offer first, which wasn’t surprising considering how well he and Stark got along, bonding over their love of and work with science in its various forms as they did. Then he had followed suit. Thor visited the planet frequently enough, visiting Jane and the team, who he had come to respect as ‘great warriors’ in every regard. Clint and Natasha were a bit... different. They came around often enough, crashed there sometimes when they did, either after a long mission or for a late movie or poker night, and had moved in some basic things- nothing personal or that reflected the nature of its owner. However, they definitely didn’t settle, and still seemed to keep themselves apart. Honestly, Steve and the others didn’t know much about either of the two rather obscure agents. Conversations about pasts and meaningful aspects of people's’ lives were artfully dodged. Questions of where they were off to and what they were doing were tactfully avoided and subjects were changed. He supposed that it was their right to keep their own secrets though, so he didn’t pry. 

Steve himself had been slow to take Tony up on his offer, but after non-stop harassment, negotiations, bribes, and a 56 slide presentation that rationalized why keeping a group of crazy powerful, prone to conflict people who were often in need of oversight and mature adult supervision in one building together was a good idea, he finally caved and began incorporating himself in gradually, until eventually, it actually felt like a home. It was certainly nothing he was used to, and at times he still questioned what on earth they were doing, but it still felt… right, somehow.

At the moment, Steve had just returned from an early morning jog through Central Park and was washing up on his floor of the tower. He had just stepped out of the bathroom, clothed in a fresh t-shirt and cargo pants, when the familiar, ever polite AI came over the speaker system. 

“Captain Rogers, Mr. Stark requests you would meet him in the kitchen area at your earliest convenience.”

Steve had just shaken the habit, but still found himself going to look up at the ceiling when he responded. It was weird, talking to a robot that essentially was the tower itself. “Did he say what it was about?”

“No, Captain, he did not. However, he did say that even if not convenient, you should come anyway, and in all haste.”

He shook his head, rolling his eyes at the the very much Tony-like request.“Alright, tell him I’m on my way.” Steve slipped on a pair of socks and shoes, straightened out his hair in the mirror, and made his way over to the elevator.

“Of course, Captain.”

When the elevator doors slid open on the communal living floor, Steve stepped out and was greeted by the sight of Dr. Banner standing behind the island counter in the middle of the kitchen, hunched forward, elbows and forearms supporting himself on the granite countertop, a mug of steaming coffee cradled between his hands. He looked tired, with an odd mix of fondness and annoyance playing across his face, most likely due to the fact Tony was pacing back and forth behind him, hands moving animatedly as he ranted about something or other, working himself up. Steve recognized this as the ‘I haven’t slept for two days because I lost track of time in my workshop and so I’m now hyped up on too much coffee’ Tony.

As he neared the kitchen, he listened more closely to the fast paced rambling coming out of Tony’s mouth. “She’s never done this before- I have no idea what to do about it. She sounded angry, but I don’t know if it was directed at me because, well, you heard it!” He turned sharply to look at Banner, who turned his head and just raised an eyebrow. “What if I did something? What if-” he cut himself off when he caught sight of Steve approaching. “Oh thank god, Steve, I need your help. I might not be long for this world- this might be-”

“Woah,” Steve chided, holding his hands out as if to calm a startled animal. “Calm down, Tony. What are you talking about? ‘Not long for this world’.” He was a little concerned- he did look pretty distressed- but he knew Tony, so it was probably not as big a deal that he made it out to be.

Banner cut Tony off with a raised hand. “Natasha called him, and because he was in the workshop all night and had instructed Jarvis not to let anyone unimportant interrupt him, he didn’t pick up.”

“Just who do you consider to be important then?” Steve asked, expression dubious.

“She called from a burner phone,” Tony declared, throwing his hands up in defeat. “It was unlisted, Jarvis didn’t recognize it, so it didn’t come through.” He looked rather crestfallen.

“Okay, well I don’t think she’s going to kill you for missing a phone call. Just call her back.” Steve moved to pour himself a mug of the freshly brewed coffee.

“It’s not that simple,” Banner interjected. “She left a voicemail.”

“Okay,” Steve drawled out, sipping from his mug. “What’d she say?”

“Listen to this,” Tony ordered. “Jarvis, play it back.” 

There was a pause and a blip over the speakers, which Steve recognized from over the phone, and then his teammate’s familiar voice carried over the speakers in the kitchen. “Tony, I don’t have a long time, so listen closely. I’m kind of in the middle of something,” she paused, sounding the slightest bit winded. “So I’ll call you back, do not, I repeat do not, call me. I’ll probably have ditched this phone by then anyway- дерьмо-” a string of Russian curses, as well as the sound of an explosion in the distance and what Steve recognized as gunfire carried over the phone. “Damnit, stay by the phone.” With that, it cut out.  
Steve took a breath, coffee frozen halfway to his lips. He lowered it back down to the countertop, contemplating what he just heard. It sounded like Natasha was in a bit of trouble, but he couldn’t say if he was surprised, given that he didn’t know what she was up to anyway whenever she wasn’t there at the tower or the Avengers hadn’t been assembled. He knew she could take care of herself though, and if she needed help from them, she would have asked for it.

“When did she leave this?”

“Late last night,” Banner answered.

“Well, it seems to me that you should do what the lady asked,” Steve said plainly. “She’ll call back when she can and explain whatever it is that needs explaining.”

“That’s what I said,” Banner exclaimed, shaking his head. 

Tony sighed, sitting down in a stool by the island and resting his head in his hands, pressing at his eyes with the heels of his palms. “Okay,” he said, not looking up. “Okay, I’m calm. I can do thi-” A phone rang, and Tony jumped off the stool, startled. “Jesus Christ!”

Steve couldn’t help but laugh at the look on his face as he righted himself and dug through his pocket to find his phone, meanwhile Jarvis said, “Sir, you asked me to alert you if and when Agent Romanoff called back.”

“Oh no, I can’t do this. I can’t,” Tony was muttering to himself, staring down at the ringing Starktech phone in his hands. 

“Tony, just answer it,” Steve prompted, the very picture of calm and collected while Tony was all jittery nerves. The fact that he was sleep deprived and had no doubt way too much caffeine running through his veins was not helping. He stalled, staring down at the phone, which would stop ringing any minute now, opportunity passed.

“Tony, answer the phone,” Bruce insisted. Tony just winced at the ringing device in his hands as if it were about to physically hurt him.

“For the love of- would you just give it here then,” Steve said, stepping forward and plucking the phone from Tony’s hands. He tapped the screen, answering the call, and put it on speakerphone.

“Natasha, this is Steve. Sorry, Tony couldn’t make it to the phone because-” he paused for the briefest second, thinking, “ah, he’s eating something right now, manners and all. But, you’re on speakerphone right now. He and Banner and I are here.” Tony bowed, hands clasped in a praying gesture, mouthing ‘thank you’ to Steve for covering for him, while Banner was trying not to laugh. “I can take you off speakerphone if you’d like.”

“No, that’s fine Steve,” she replied, sounding a little tired, or maybe she was just beyond caring. “I wanted to get you on the line earlier anyway- you really should just resign to getting a cell phone already. I’m sure Stark could set you up, if you’re not too busy shirking my calls, that is, Tony,” she sniped, but there was no malice in her tone.

“Sorry,” he admitted, looking sheepish.

“What did you need, Natasha?” Steve asked.

“If you heard my message, you could have guessed that I’m elsewhere occupied at the moment; I’m not even in the country, technically, not that you need to know that. But here I am, in the middle of some rather sensitive- we’ll call it, negotiations- and I get a call through a secure SHIELD link, from med-bay back in the New York headquarters.” She sounded rather peeved. “See, I’m on the shortlist of people who get notified whenever Clint does something exceptionally stupid.” She really emphasized ‘exceptionally’. “Like, say, getting a building dropped on him,” she added flippantly, but it was clear enough that she was pissed.

“Is he alright?” Steve asked, concern for their teammate and whatever he’d gotten himself into growing. 

“That’s a good question, Cap. I would know, if the idiot hadn’t skipped out of med-bay after the first two hours, when I was told by some rather put off doctors that he should have stayed for at least a week, at the barest of minimums. They wanted to know if I had seen him, which I obviously had not. He just got back from a different assignment yesterday evening, and I’m not due back for at least another few days.”

“Ah, I see,” Steve said, nodding. “Well, he’s not back here at the tower-”

“Jarvis, he’s not in the tower, right?” Tony piped up. It’s not like he couldn’t have snuck in, though they doubted it.

“No Sir, the last Agent Barton was here was last Friday for poker night. He has not returned since.”

“Great,” Tony grumbled. “Poker night. Another reminder I owe him a his body weight in Oreos.” Friday nights were Avengers poker nights, though occasionally they did opt to play various other board or card games. And the last time, Clint swept the board. Damn if he wasn’t good at cards- him and Natasha both. But while both of the super spies had the advantage of a truly impressive poker face and getting reads on people, somehow the archer also just had a talent for the game- that, or he was cheating, but Tony had yet to work out how exactly. Last friday, Tony had been out of the game, but made the stupid deal of Oreos to win back into the game, and then promptly lost. “Hey Natasha, he doesn’t cheat or anything, does he? Aces up his sleeves? Hell, count cards?”

She sighed, barely audible over the phone. “Can we get back to the matter at hand please?”

“Yes,” Steve said, shooting a scolding look at Tony, who shrugged. “We can. What did you want us to do then?”

“Not ‘us’. I know where he’s gone, and I need you to go check in on him and drag his moronic ass back to med-bay.”

“What, you call me first, just for me to pass it off to Capsicle?” Tony complained, not so much because he wanted to do it, but because being intentionally passed over rubbed him the wrong way.

“Yes, Tony.” She sounded exasperated now. “Honestly, because he annoys Clint less, and Clint is more likely to listen to him when he does that ‘I’m Captain America and I’m Disappointed in You’ look- you know exactly what I’m talking about Steve, don’t pretend otherwise. Also, because Clint is a stubborn shit, and he may have to be bodily removed. Clint hates hospitals of any kind. Don’t ask why- he just does. And he’s exceedingly difficult when he’s like this. But at this point, I don’t care if you all go, I just need someone to go make sure he’s okay, alright?” She was talking faster, voice rising, but Steve couldn’t tell if it was with annoyance at them or concern. 

It was obvious how much those two cared for each other though. There was a history there, something the rest of them didn’t have. If Steve knew one thing about Clint and Natasha, it was that their loyalties to each other came first- for working with a larger team that the Avengers were, the question of if that would be a problem sometimes gave him pause.

“Okay,” Steve agreed, holding a hand up to silence Tony before he could remark on any of it. “Where can I find him?”

“Thank you.” And she genuinely meant it. “Черт возьми, he’s going to be pissed with me. He has an apartment- top floor of an old building in Bed-Stuy, on Quincy and Tompkins.” She paused. “Obviously, you don’t tell anyone about it. And, just, try not to be too surprised by anything or anyone you met there.”

After Steve had promised he would take care of it, and Natasha had hung up the line, the first thing out of Tony’s mouth was that he wanted to go too. It wasn’t even about being passed over- he understood and even agreed with Natasha’s explanation of why. No, rather, he wanted to see Clint’s apartment for himself.

Steve understood that feeling; he himself felt a small part of him eager to learn more about the archer, who, for as long as they had know him, and for all of the life and death scenarios they had been in with him, they knew so little about. Even so, Steve also felt like it was a terrible invasion of their teammate’s privacy- he had not invited them into that part of his life, had not even told them he had an apartment in New York, much less how to get to it. However, Natasha made it clear that it was absolutely necessary; having a building dropped on you didn’t sound like something you walked off after two hours in med-bay. 

Banner had politely excused himself from the argument, saying he had left experiments running that he needed to check on, meanwhile Tony and Steve went back and forth, Tony following him while he went to get his jacket and keys and everything. Then, a lightbulb flicked on over Tony’s head, and Steve could see it by that look in his eyes.

“Ha! I’m going. You need me to get there.”

“No, I don’t.”

“What, you gonna take your motorcycle? He’s had a building a fall on top of him- we don’t know what state he’s in, though apparently, not good.”

Steve paused. He hadn’t considered that, though he was clearly right about that. “Taxi.”

He had an answer for that too. “She made it clear he wouldn’t want to go back. He escaped in the first place. How do you think a cabbies gonna see that if you have to shove him in, and he’s saying to stop the car? Hmm?”

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, frustrated. Damn, he was right about that too. Unfortunately, he would be needing one of Tony’s cars. “Give the keys.”

“Nuh-uh. One of my cars goes, I go. Final.” Tony placed himself in front of Steve, in the way of the elevator doors.

“Tony, this is completely inappropriate. Our teammate needs medical attention, and you are delaying that.”

“Am I? Or are you, by being so stubborn. Besides, if it were absolutely life threatening, he wouldn’t have been physically able to leave the SHIELD med-bay in the first place.”

“Don’t put this on me. Natasha asked me to go in the first place-”

“She said she didn’t care if we all went, actually.” Steve attempted to move around him, but Tony moved also to block his way.

“At the end, out of frustration, because you wouldn’t shut up about poker night.”

“She still said it.”

“It’s an invasion of privacy, Tony. It’s not fair of you to just invite yourself along.”

“Oh, right, sure, right to privacy, fourth amendment. I get why you of all people would care so strongly about that, but A, that protects citizens from the government, not concerned friends, and B, have you considered the fact that nothing is private nowadays? You can find anything about anyone on the internet if you try hard enough. And, it’s an apartment for christ’s sake- not his goddamn life’s story.”

“Are you going to please let this go?”

“Nope. Plus, you could use a hand, I’m sure.”

“Fine.” Steve shook his head, finally moving around Tony, who looked a little surprised.

“Really?”

“Fine, but if you’re coming, bring the guy some goddamn Oreos.”

 

“Is this the building? I think this is the number.” Tony craned his neck around to get a better angle as they drove by. “Hmm, and he chose this over an entire floor in a skyscraper in Manhattan?” He eyed the streets and building as they went by, searching for an open place to park along the street nearby.

“Don’t judge it like that, Tony. If you’re gonna walk into his place, don’t try and belittle it. He’s got his reasons, and they’re no one’s but his own. Besides, I get it. Sometimes, an average place and some quiet is better than anything a whole lot of money can buy.” Steve sat in the passenger seat beside him in the least showy and attention grabbing car Tony owned and kept in the subterranean garage below the tower: a gleaming black Tesla Model S. 

Tony winced inwardly at his words. “Yeah, right, okay,” he said begrudgingly. They pulled back around and found a parking spot out front of the apartment building. After paying the meter, the two of them headed up the few stairs and into the breezeway, where Tony caught the door just as it was closing behind a lady carrying in her groceries, a gaggle of small children tripping over her heels behind her, chatting back and forth about something to do with Christmas, even though it was only mid-October.

She turned, saying something to one of her brood, and caught sight of Tony and Steve in the hallway behind her. She gave a warm smile, ushering her children in front of her. “Hi there. Haven’t seen you two around here before. Looking to rent?” One of her children grabbed her free hand and continued tugging her along.

“No,” Steve smiled politely. “Visiting a friend.”

“Well, I’m Simone. I’d shake your hand but,” she laughed. “Who’re you here to see? I’ve lived here long enough to know just about everybody.”

“Steve,” he said, introducing himself, “and my friend Tony. It’s nice to meet you, Simone.” As for the who they were there to see part, that was a little trickier. They didn’t know if the people here knew who Clint was, or if he even gave his real name, or used one of many cover identities.

“Well I’m sure you do know him, Simone,” Tony said, smiling and playing up the charm. He apparently realized this slight problem, and had the solution. “Blond, wears purple more than anyone in their right mind should, has a penchant for hurting himself, and junk food, lives on the top floor?” He held up and rattled the pack of the cookies he had brought as a courtesy. Obviously, he still owed him quite a lot more. How much did he weigh exactly, Tony wondered…

“Oh, I see,” she said, smile faltering a little bit. “You’re here to see, Clint. He doesn’t really get people stopping by…” Was that suspicion he saw across her face?

“We work with him,” Tony assured.

“Have you seen him around lately?” Steve asked.

“Hmm, no, not seen him coming or going, but then, for some reason I’ll never understand, that man favors using the fire escape.” She glanced between them again. “Work with him, huh? Well- oh,” she stopped for a second mid-pace, eyeing the two men more closely before her child’s tugging hand urged her to continue. “You two look familiar? Have I seen you before?” She frowned, lips pursed.

“I doubt it, ma’am,” Steve said, smiling. “Get that a lot.” Tony nodded earnestly.

“Well, okay then.” She stopped in front of an apartment door, letting go of the child’s hand and fishing out a key from the purse over her shoulder. “Have a nice day, and say hi to Clint for me.”

“Will do,” Tony affirmed, he and Steve passing by toward the stairs at the end of the hallway. “You have a nice day as well.”

When Simone had gone, and Steve and Tony had begun to ascend the stairs to the to the top floor, Steve said, “Weird he used his name here. I’d have thought a cover.”

“Yeah. Weird,” Tony agreed.

They had just reached the landing on the top floor when they were greeted by a manic golden retriever leaping down the length of the hallway toward them, ears flying, tongue flopping out of its mouth, and tail wagging around behind it.

“Lucky, NO.” A young woman in a purple t-shirt, black jeans, and long dark hair went running after it.

The dog closed the distance between them in seconds, and skidded across the carpet to stop in front of them, ending in a playful ‘ready to pounce’ pose, wagging its butt in the air, tail flying in circles. He then began hopping side to side energetically, looking up at them with a wide mouthed grin, and curiously, only one eye. Steve knelt down to pat him, though Tony preferred to avoid the dog hair and saliva, thank you very much. 

“Wow,” the young woman breathed, coming to a stop in front of them and reaching down to pull the dog, ‘Lucky’, apparently, away from Steve by the collar, as he had begun to jump up on him, even though Steve didn’t really mind. He liked dogs- had wanted one, but never did. Never could. “Worst. Guard dog. Ever. Look at you, jumping all over like that. Get down. Sit. Stay put.” When she had Lucky under control by her side, she looked up and gave a rueful smile to Steve and Tony, shrugging. “Sorry about him. Kate Bishop,” she said, offering her hand to shake to both of them, which they did. “And this is Pizza Dog, my side kick.”

Steve and Tony gave their names as well. Smiling politely. 

“I thought you called him Lucky,” Tony said, thinking Pizza Dog was an odd name for the animal.

“I did, that’s his name.”

“O-kay,” he said, raising an eyebrow, but she didn’t bat an eyelash.

“So, you two are here to see Clint, huh?”

That gave them pause. How the hell did this Kate Bishop person know they were there for him? “Uh, how?” Tony started intelligently.

“Simone called. See, people, ‘cept for me of course and sometimes Nat, don’t come looking for Clint here, unless they’re keen on starting some trouble. So, who are you?”

Steve winced. Not a great start to their mission. “Well-”

Kate just went right on, not even giving him the chance to answer, arms crossed and standing their all defensively, staring them down. “You’re not with the Tracksuit Draculas, are you? Nah, probably not. You haven’t said ‘bro’ yet, and not Russian either. Okay then, from the Cirque du Nuit? Didn’t really leave on good footing with them, did we. But then, they’ve all got those atrocious Vaudeville French accents, and the goofy costumes. So who are you then, and what do you want with Clint?” She narrowed her eyes accusingly at them both, though Lucky/Pizza Dog just rolled over, legs in the air, tongue out, grinning up at them. 

“Um, we’re not with, either of those, whatever-they-weres,” Steve said, holding his hands up placatingly. “Natasha Romanoff sent us to check in with Barton? And we work together?”

“And we’re his friends,” Tony added, against holding up the Oreos. “Who else would bring him Oreos?”

“Oh,” she said lightly, her hands going to her hips from where they were previously crossed, and abandoning her firm stance blocking their path in favor of bouncing on her toes. “You could have just said you work for SHIELD.” She spun and proceeded to walk back down the hallway, Lucky/Pizza Dog trotting after her. “Did you wanna see him? I guess you wanted to see him, right? Well, it’s not such a great time right now. He just got in, long day, and, uh, maybe you come back another time, yeah?” She leaned against the doorframe idly, smiling. The door, Steve noticed, was the number Natasha gave them. Clint’s place.

“Yeah, we know he just got out of med-bay at SHIELD headquarters, and, thing is, Natasha sent us to check on him,” Tony said, indicating toward the door with a tilt of his head. Lucky sat down facing the door and put his nose up to it, whining to be let in.

“Oh, you two doctors or something? Don’t look like doctors.”

“No, we’re here to bring him back to med-bay, like Natasha said, because she also said a building fell on him, and the doctors at HQ said he needs to be back there, not here,” Steve explained.

“What?! No way, Jose. I just broke him out of there- you wanna put him back in? Just let him be.” She resumed her firm, defensive stance in the way of the door, chin jutting out toward them, looking awfully ambitious and confident for a petite woman and the ‘worst guard dog ever’ facing off against Steve and Tony. 

“You ‘broke him out’?” Tony asked, the question written all over his face.

“You bet you’re remarkably geometric goatee I did. What? Think I can’t? Is this because I’m a girl? Seriously? I am done taking people’s hyped up, misogynistic bullcrap. I am the poster girl for the return of new age feminism. I’m the best damn Hawkeye this side of the equator. I’ll fight you right here and right now, the both of you, and kick both your asses! Let’s go-”

“Woah, woah!” Tony said, hands out, startled from the sudden outburst and accusations and very confused and a little bit horrified at the same time. “Sorry, no, you’ve got it all wrong. I wasn’t saying- or suggesting- or anything, and- did you say you were ‘the best Hawkeye’? What?”

“What, don’t want to fight a girl, Mr. Goatee and designer slacks? I see you for what you are.”

“Steve, back me up here,” Tony pleaded desperately.

“Look, ah, Miss Bishop, we really didn’t come here to start something, and neither of us would suggest you weren’t capable of something just because you were a woman, trust me,” Steve started, trying to appease her, fired up and ready to go as she was. He didn’t think she was kidding about the whole fighting them right there and now thing. “I’ve seen women win out in fights against guys twice their size too many times to think any differently.”

She rolled her eyes, hands on hips. “Oh, trust you, trust you? Why should I-”

“Because he’s Captain America, Katie. I don’t think he’s a misogynist,” came a muffled voice from behind the door, cutting her off mid-rant, so exhausted sounding and rough that they barely recognized it as Clint’s.

Kate, whose mouth was hanging open still from speaking, blinked and snapped it shut, teeth clacking. She just froze awkwardly, face going a little red, and neither Tony nor Steve knew what to say to that. However, it was she that broke the very incredibly weird silence first, a moment later. 

“Oh,” she said plainly, smiling like nothing had happened. “Okay. Just excuse me for one minute, please.” She held up a finger, and reached for the doorknob with her other hand, slipping inside, the dog after her, and shutting it behind her. 

She didn’t come back out, leaving them standing outside the door awkwardly, listening at whispers just barely too low and distant to make out. After a minute of indecision and shuffling of feet, the door creaked open slowly, revealing a familiar, if bruised and battered, face in the sliver of the doorway.

“Well, you two comin’ in?” Clint leaned against the doorframe, not idly or anything but because he actually needed it to support his weight or he was afraid he might collapse right there, and boy, wouldn’t that be incredibly awkward. 

His short hair was unruly as ever, sticking every which way from how he had been previously napping in a slightly drug induced slumber on the couch until the bickering outside his door had woken him up. He had popped in his hearing aids for a moment to listen to what was going on, and after saving Kate further embarrassment, he had taken his aids back out and forced himself up to hobble to the door, which was not at all an easy or pain free task.

He had a purple bruise blossoming across his left cheek, and cut with a few butterfly bandages over his right eye, but besides that, his face had come out of his ordeal none too the worse for wear, which was a nice change in pace. He was shirtless and wore sweatpants and a purple, soft felt blanket draped over his shoulders. Through the gap of his cape, one could see the white bandages that circled his chest, across his ribs and right below his sternum, as well as the patch of gauze taped to the side of his abdomen- the bandage for really very nasty scrapes and broken ribs, the gauze patch for where he was stabbed by a bit of broken rebar in the collapse, which was not at all fun. 

His left arm was in a sling, his shoulder having been dislocated and various tendons strained, as explained by the doctors, and the other, beneath the blanket as he gripped it closed beneath his chin, had a bandage wrapped around his forearm from where broken glass had nearly cut him to the bone. Though his unexpected visitors had yet to see evidence of it, stationary as he was, he walked with a limp from a severely sprained right ankle that was wrapped in an ace bandage. And those were just the worst parts; his abused body was scattered with a myriad of smaller scrapes and band-aids and bruises. He also had a mild concussion.

All in all, he had seen better days. 

Everything hurt. Seriously. He felt like one big bruise. His bruises had bruises and scrapes and stabs. His head throbbed, just like everything else, but it was the most distracting. The mild painkillers that he had been given at the SHIELD med-bay were beginning to wear off, so aspirin was his friend. And he just wanted to go back to sleep. He wanted Steve and Tony, well meaning as they were, to go away and leave him alone. But more than that, he wanted Natasha to be there, but she wasn’t, and wouldn’t be there for another few days. 

Tony may have said something, but Clint didn’t have his aides in because his head hurt and hearing stuff didn’t help it at all, and he wasn’t paying enough attention to read his lips, so he missed it. “You two coming in?” He shuffled back from the door, nudging it open with his foot to reveal more of the inside of his apartment.

He turned his back, still not listening to whatever they may have said, and hobbled back to the couch, which was way closer than his bed, and sat down gingerly, stabbing pain making breathing temporarily not an option. He leaned back into the couch, and closed his eyes, aware that Tony and Steve followed him in and closed the door behind them. Lucky padded over to sit on the floor beside him, resting his head on the blankets over Clint’s lap, looking at him with that sad, one-eyed look. Huh, he and Fury should be friends… that may be the opiates talking.

The lights were off, but enough light came from the windows that the room was just dim. Tony and Steve couldn’t help but look around the apartment from where they stood. The living room, the kitchen, the hallway toward the back of the apartment, leading to what they assumed were a bedroom and bathroom, all of it, looked exceptionally normal. Not necessarily too personalized, but comfortable, and used, like someone actually lived there, which was not at all like the empty, cold aura his floor at the tower gave off. Well, okay, the bow and scattered arrows on the kitchen table weren’t quite normal, and neither was the archery target in the corner of the living room, but, still. 

Clint cracked an eye open to see Steve saying something, trying to get his attention, but he wasn’t hearing any of it, and quite frankly didn’t care. He wanted them out of his space- and that being said, how did they find him there in the first place?

He sighed, waving his mostly good- okay, better- arm at his aids on the coffee table, but not moving a muscle in an effort to reach for them. Steve caught on though, and placed them in his outstretched hand. Clint shoved one of them into his ear, leaving the other in his lap. 

As soon as he did so, he cleared his throat, which turned into more of a rib grinding cough, and greeted them with “Fuck off.” He laid his head back down, sinking into the blanket and pillow strewn couch, and closed his eyes.

Tony took a seat perched on the edge of the chair across from them, and Steve sat on the edge of the couch at the end, careful not to disturb Clint where he slouched. His voice low and careful but loud enough to easily hear, he said, “Clint, Natasha sent us to take you back to med-bay. And from the looks of you, that’s exactly where you need to be.” With no response, he frowned, trying again. “Clint? Can you hear me?”

“Yep. Choosin’ not to answer,” he mumbled.

Exchanging a glance with Steve, who shrugged, Tony tried. “Clint, Natasha-”

“You can tell her that she can fuck off too.” He took a shallow breath, trying to ease the pain. “Please leave.” He propped his sprained ankle on the coffee table. “And don’t actually tell her I said that.”

“You look terrible,” Steve stated quite simply, trying a new approach. “And like you’re in pain. Why don’t you want to go back to med-bay, Clint? The doctors there can-”

“Poke, and prod, and test, and talk and talk and talk and never leave me the fuck alone. Why won’t you just piss off already…” He opened his eyes to take in Steve and Tony’s expressions, which were mixed. Some guilt, which he could use to make them leave him alone, sympathy, also good, and determination in the set of Steve’s jaw, which was not good. When Steve got it in his head that something was the right thing to do and he was the one to do it, it was nigh on impossible to make him change his mind.

“Clint, dude,” Tony started, “You look like you’re about to keel over any minute. Let us get you back to HQ.”

Clint sighed, which hurt. Nothing new. Time for a topic change. “How’d you find me here anyway?” Clint didn’t like the idea that he was so easy to track down, here, his one, good safe place of all places. 

“Natasha told us where to find you, because she was concerned. And she knew you’d blame her for it, but it’s your own damn fault for running off,” Steve scolded, giving his one of those Captain America looks. Awesome. 

“Hmm, good.”

“What? Good? You’re not pissed at her?” Tony asked, incredulous as he opened the package of Oreos he had brought from the tower and set in on the coffee table, munching on one. He realized they would likely be there for a while. 

“Nah, not really. Just glad you didn’t track it down somehow yourselves- can’t have it bein’ that easy to find. Too many people tryin’a kill me.”

“Oh, I see,” Tony said, pulling another Oreo apart. “So while we’re in the questions asking and answering part, mind telling us who Kate Bishop is? And where she went, for that matter? Also, is the one-eyed mutt Lucky, or Pizza Dog? Because we were getting mixed answers on that one. And, you have a dog? Or is he Kate’s? And, how’s he got one eye? It is a ‘he’, isn’t it?”

“Ugh, you wanna slow down there?” Clint complained, lifting his head off the back of the couch a smidgen to look across at Tony. “Kate’s my friend, mentee, protege- taught her everythin’ I know, not that she’s quite as good as me, with the aim thing- but she’s got skill. Gotta give the girl credit. Long story how I met her- very long. Complicated. And, she slipped out the back window and left on the fire escape, cause she was terribly embarrassed at not only calling Captain America sexist, but saying she’d fight him. Yep, she’d gone, and will make sure for the rest of her life she never lays eyes on you again. That’s Kate for ya.”  
“So, she’s also Hawkeye? Why not a different name? Maybe, Hawkgirl, or something. I don’t know. It’d be less confusing,” Tony pondered.

“Yep. She is. She uses the bow, so she gets to use the name. Anything else than the name would be like saying she’s not worthy of it, or that she’s not as capable of it. To give her something like ‘Hawkgirl’ would be setting her aside and treating her differently, treating her less, because she’s a girl, and that is sexist. And trust me, whether some bad guy somewhere gets shot with an arrow from my bow or hers, they ain’t gonna care. Arrow’s an arrow, name’s the name. Not changin’ it.” Clint shifted uncomfortable, trying to ease his whole everything. He really wanted to lay down…

“Wow, that sounds like something Kate would say,” Steve said, smiling with fondness at the thought of the woman he had just met and her staunch resolve, something to be admired, though if he took Clint’s word for it, he would never meet her again. A shame.

“She did,” Clint admitted. “I was the first to suggest ‘Hawkgirl’. I got socked in the eye for my troubles. And then got that same talking to.”

Tony laughed, eating another Oreo. Steve just shook his head, smiling. “And what about the dog?” Steve asked, scratching him behind the ears. Lucky perked up at that, tongue lolling lazily out of his mouth.

“Lucky. AKA Pizza Dog. He’s kinda mine- I brought him. Also kinda Kate’s, just because. Stays with me when I’m here, with Kate when I’m not.”

“Okay, so what, Pizza Dog is his superhero name? I can get that, but why on earth Pizza Dog?” Tony asked, incredulous. “It’s kind of a ridiculous name for a mutt.” 

“Well, that’s kinda how I met him. And he eats it. A lot of it. He’ll steal it right off the table or the counter whenever he gets the chance. And, don’t call him a mutt Stark, and don’t bash the name. I owe my life to Lucky here. And then he took a beating, a bullet, and getting kicked out into traffic for it. ” 

“Damn,” Tony said, voice almost too low for Clint to pick up. (Clint figured he would put his other aid in now. They weren’t going away anytime soon.) “Alright, Pizza Dog the superhero it is. He fights crime and gets his ass kicked just as badly as you do.”

“Tony,” Steve scolded, “That was in poor taste-”

Somehow sensing they were talking about him, Lucky began to get antsy, shifting this way and that, and he decided to jump on on the couch, and right on top of Clint. The weight and paws on his broken ribs and post-impalement side made Clint yelp in pain, a shocked cry more than anything before he bit it back, everything burning with renewed vigor, eyes beginning to water.

He startled Lucky, and Steve almost immediately scooped him off of Clint’s lap, leaving him reeling, gasping for breath and trying not to breathe because it hurt too much all at the same time. He grit his teeth, partially doubling over and curling to the side, fighting back the black edges around his vision. Steve was standing over him now, saying something, something, Tony was leaning forward in his chair, something, damn it hurt like nothing else, and he just wanted everyone to go away and leave him the fuck alone because he was not about to fucking cry or pass out in front of fucking Captain America and Iron Man. Fuck this, fuck this, fuck this.

He just wanted them all to go away, to not see him like this. He was already the weakest team member- he knew that. He couldn’t compete with magic and serums and radiation and crazy technology- he was just a guy, just a regular guy, and he was in a shit fuck ton of pain and at his worst right now and they were there to see it and he needed them to go away. And he wanted Natasha to be there dammit. That’s all he wanted. Why couldn’t he just get one damn thing he wanted? 

He kind of just wanted to pass out- usually he would want to at this point, to give in, but no fucking way with Steve and Tony there.

A terribly pained, ragged, broken sound escaped his raw throat, “Fucking son of a bitch,” he swore, spitting the words with a venom. “You’re lucky I love you dog, so fucking lucky. Fuck, fuck, fuck that hurts. Shit, okay, worse than Budapest. This is worse than Budapest,” he gasped. “You can tell Nat-” gasp, “-that I said that.” Gasp. “Worse than Budapest,” he said on an exhale. 

They were trying to say something, but he tore out his aids and threw them aside, not caring where they landed. 

The worst of the pain was fading now, the tide ebbing back to a steady, dull throbbing everywhere. Okay, okay, nearing the realm of manageable. He began to uncurl shakily, falling flat on the couch and lying on his side which felt mostly okay and burying himself under the blankets as he did so. He either wanted to die, or disappear right now- couldn’t decide which.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, gentle, cautious, and then someone was pulling the blanket that haw over his head away. He resisted it, until he couldn’t and gave way. Welp, he was pretty much fucked. No doubt they saw him as a fragile, breakable, pitiful thing now. He was fucked. 

“Just go away,” he pleaded, and even though he couldn’t hear his own words, he was sure it sounded too close to begging for his liking. At least he wasn’t crying. Eyes tearing up? Yeah, a bit, but not crying.

But then the blanket was down to his shoulders, and Steve was crouched in front of him, and he was, he was, signing? His hands were moving, slowly but with purpose, and it wasn’t perfect, but that was ASL. Steve didn’t know how to do that though… But he clearly did, and the shock of it was just enough to pull him out of his wallowing in pain and self misery for a minute to watch his hands and see what he was saying.

‘We are taking you to med-bay. Right now.’ With ‘med-bay’ spelled out in letters because who the fuck learns that word anyway? Not beginners.

“Fuck you Rogers, and everything you stand for,” Clint growled. Probably louder than he intended, but whatever. 

“Clint,” he said, and he recognized his name on his lips. “Now.”

“Well, you’d have to carry me, and that’d be awkward for the both of us, not to mention painful. Now, not only as owner of this here apartment you stand in, not to mention as owner and landlord of this fucking building, I’ll telling you to get the fuck out or I swear to god I will call the cops on you.” It was a ridiculous threat, calling the cops on Captain America and Iron Man, not to mention not possible because he would have to get to a phone, but his meaning was clear, and intentions obvious.

“You ow-- - -ding?” Clint had let his eyes slip close, and missed part of it.

“Run that by me again?”

Steve frowned. “You own the building?”

“Yes. So. Fuck. Off.” He was so done. So, unbelievably, done. “Please…” He shut his eyes. Benefits of being deaf? You don’t have to listen to people when you don’t want to. 

There was a hushed conversation going on between Steve and Tony- that much he knew. When he opened his eyes again minutes later, Tony was handing him his hearing aids, saying “Please.”

Oh for fuck’s sake. When he was capable in a few months or so, he would beat the shit out of both of these two. He took one of them, shoving it in the ear of his pillow, lying on his side as he was.

“Painkillers. Industrial grade painkillers. That’s what’s waiting for you back at med-bay. And for the life of me, I cannot comprehend why you don’t want to go.” Tony shook his head, concerned and frightened.

“Sure, or you can just walk that way down the street for three blocks, and take a left, and in an old alley there you can usually find a heroin dealer. Then we’ll be set,” he said through grit teeth, sarcasm spilling over none the less.

Because doctors, hospitals, he didn’t like them. Not one bit. Reminded him too much of… only bad things. Only bad things had happened to him and to people he’s cared about in hospitals. His childhood. Hospitals after his dad- his father, not dad, father, he didn’t have a dad- after his father went on a binge, coming home to beat the shit out of him and Barney. Telling the doctors it was an accident, all accidents, no one’s fault but his own. Losing his hearing? Hospital. Doctors. White coats and christ, even just the sterile, unnatural smell of the place. Doctors talking and talking and talking, poking and prodding, needles sticking, IVs dripping. After Loki played around in his head? SHIELD psych ward, medical staff, treating him like some sort of experiment, poking, watching, recording, waiting. Every injury since- just pain and sickness there. 

So sure, he could suck it up for a while as needed, forget about it, get in, fix the problem, get out. When Natasha was there, it helped. A lot. If she were there now, he didn’t doubt she could convince him to go. She was stable, safe. But she wasn’t there. And he was not going to another freaking hospital now, not after he got out and was home. He was not going back to med-bay. Maybe it wasn’t rational- he knew it wasn’t. But he didn’t care.

“Okay, what about the medical center in the tower?” Tony asked, bargaining. He really didn’t get it. Neither of them. They thought they were doing him a favor. 

“No.”

“NYC Health Hospital isn’t that far.”

“Nope.”

Tony rocked back on his heels, staring up at the ceiling. But then it was Steve who was talking. Yelling, more like. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Barton. Do you want to be like this? Normal people, basically any sort of people, don’t enjoy feeling like this. Natasha said it wouldn’t be easy, but this is something else.” He was pacing back and forth, from living room to kitchen and back. “I don’t want to carry you down there myself, but I’m about to, and you won’t be able to stop me.”

Clint closed his eyes. Another option then…

“What time is it?” Clint asked.

Steve checked his watch. “7:46”

“I need you to make a call,” he said, voice raw. It felt a little like admitting defeat.

“What?” Tony asked, looking hopeful. “To who?”

“Claire Temple. Nurse at Metro-General. Works the night shift. When she’d not saving normal people, she’s helping assholes like me that find themselves in a spot of trouble. Makes house calls.” Clint felt something cold and wet nudging his forearm which lay near the edge of the couch, outside the blankets. “I know you didn’t mean to,” Clint muttered, practically inaudible as Lucky nuzzled his arm and hand, whining. “Shh.” He patted him on the head.

“By assholes like you, you mean…” Tony trailed off, question evident.

“A few people I’ve met, just in the neighborhood, ya know. Like, the guy why runs around Hell’s Kitchen, playing devil’s advocate. Nice guy, occasionally finds himself in dumpsters also.”

After a little more explanation, and haggling over the final agreement that if Claire agreed to come here, then he wouldn’t have to leave, Tony dug through a drawer in the kitchen to find the number scribbled down on the pad of paper, right where he left it.

Thankfully, she answered. Clint explained the situation.

“You know I care about you Clint, but you, unlike some of our mutual friends, can go to a hospital. You wouldn’t have nearly as much explaining to do. Your name is already out, and you’re not hiding,” she said, and he could feel her eye roll through the phone. He could.

“I know. I know, and this is just me being a selfish bastard, so you can say no if you want to. But, if you do, I can say definitively, with the proper authority, that Captain America or Iron Man, maybe both, will visit the children’s ward of Metro-General in the very near future.” He saw Steve and Tony shaking their heads in his peripheral, but he knew they wouldn’t back out. Also, they could have just left earlier. “Huh? What do you say to that?”

“Oh, Clint Barton, how considerate of you. Sacrificing your friends to the children’s ward.”

“And, you could meet them in person if you like, because they’re giving me very disapproving looks right now.”

There was a pause. “Alright. What the hell. It’s my day off anyway. I’m on my way.”

“Thanks Claire. Owe you another one. And, you don’t happen to keep any heavy duty painkillers on you, do you? Maybe a sedative?”

“Yes, because I know people like you. And you know what, I think half the super people in this city owe me one or two favors. And some day, if I collect, I could really get something done, now couldn’t I?”

A short bit of time, a lot of scolding, and a threat or two later, Clint fell into a morphine induced haze. Claire looked him over, and found the rest of the treatment for his injuries satisfactory, though Clint later found out she didn’t at all like the idea of him being away from medical professionals in the state he was in, and had agreed to stay, while eventually, Tony and Steve finally left. 

He was fine with Claire being there. She was a friend, not that Tony and Steve weren’t, per say, but she had no expectations of him, except to get better, and do some good. He had nothing to live up to with her. Didn’t have to prove anything. She was just a soft presence.

But hell, he was basically unconscious in two seconds flat, so he supposed it didn’t matter.


	2. not one for sappy reunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An overarching plot involving all of the Avengers is introduced, however a good deal of the story will still revolve around our two favorite super spies and Bed-Stuy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so here's the deal. As of June 25th, 2016, I will not have access to a laptop or computer for 5 whole weeks due to a summer college program I am involved in. So, while I will have down town to plan and likely to write out material by hand, and I may try- very, very hard- to type it out on my phone, my ability to post updates in this time will be severely hampered. 
> 
> This really sucks, obviously, but there's not anything I can do about it. So, there will be a hiatus. (I'm not cruel- no cliffhangers) Please don't abandon me :((((( I'll come back, I promise. 
> 
> But this is going to be the last update in a while.

Uggghhhh. That’s kind of how he felt. Clint came back to consciousness slowly, brushing away thick layer after layer of cobwebs from his brain until the foggy mist cleared, and he managed to open his eyes. 

He was on his couch still, at his apartment, which he supposed was good. Nothing was quite as unsettling as waking up in a hospital or SHIELD med-bay, not quite remembering all that happened or how he got there or how long it had been and having to go through the check of, ‘Okay, can I move my feet? Fingers? All body parts accounted for?’. But if he was still home, he had to be at least somewhat okay.

As he became cognizant enough to become aware of his surroundings, in the low light, he noticed there was someone sitting in the armchair on the other side of the coffee. The hazing blur of a woman, legs crossed, fiddling with- was that his bow?- in her lap. His still scrambled and slow moving thoughts immediately jumped to Natasha. She had come back.

He shuffled around, pulling at blankets and wincing with every movement as he scooted back enough to rest his upper back against the armrest of the couch. He lifted the hand that wasn’t tied up in the sling and rubbed at his eyes.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” she said, uncrossing her legs and shifting forward in her seat. She must have said it loudly, but it still wasn’t easy to make out; he wasn’t wearing his aids. 

“Nat?” he got out, voice rasping.

“Nope.” And that was Kate’s voice, and it was her face that became clear as she leaned forward, her chin propped on her fists and elbows resting on her knees, blowing a bubble with the gum she was chewing and snapping it sharply, a toothy grin spreading across her face. But then her expression shifted, and she rolled her eyes at him, standing up and walking toward the kitchen. “Well, don’t look so disappointed about it.”

Had he looked disappointed? He didn’t know, mostly because he couldn’t really feel his face. It was just numb, like everything else, in a throbbing sort of way that hurt.

“Kate.” He forced himself to swing his legs off the side of the couch, gingerly, and slowly, each muscle resisting and feeling tight and sore. God, was he creaking? He felt awful in the way that roadkill looks awful. But, he probably looked like roadkill anyway. He spotted his older, purple BTEs that he favored when not on official SHIELD or Avengers business on the coffee table, and reached for them, his body fumbling and not yet cooperative, and fit them into place.

“Yep, that’s the one.” Her voice was raised, quite loud, he now realized, and it hurt his head like he had the worst hangover of his life. And that was saying something. She returned with two mugs of coffee, and plopped down on the couch besides him.

“Don’t have to yell,” he grumbled, motioning in the general direction of his ears with a jerky hand movement.

“Sorry,” she said, a more reasonable, inside voice, proffering a mug. 

He looked down at his arms, frowning. The sling was annoying, restricting movement. It had only been dislocated, after all, and it wasn’t anymore, so… not necessary. He began to wrestle with the strap across his shoulder, try to get the damn thing off.

“Woah there,” Kate set the mugs down on the coffee table and reached out to stop his free arm, which he was pulling at the shoulder strap with. “I think that’s supposed to stay on.”

“Nah, don’t need it.” He continued trying, but his body was still rebellious and slow, movements shaky at best, and it wasn’t too hard for Kate to restrain his arm, cautiously avoiding the bandage over his forearm.

“Yes, you do. Or no coffee,” she threatened firmly, looking serious as she could manage.

“Aww, Katie, no.” He gave her a very ‘kicked puppy’ look.

“Don’t give me that look, you pansy. You gotta let your shoulder heal properly. Clint, or you’ll be out of a job.” She let him go.

He processed what she said, brain moving ever so slowly- had to be the drugs clearing his system- and nodded, eyes drifting shut. “Right.” He took a shallow breath, testing out his ribs. They still hurt, but it was a dull sort of constant ache, and not stabbing pain, so that was an improvement.

“Good. Now, coffee?” She lifted it off the table, and passed him a mug, which he accepted gratefully.

He took a sip of the life-giving liquid, easing back against the couch. They both just sat there for a few minutes, drinking coffee, and watching Lucky jump up, paws on the windowsill, to stare at pigeons that hopped along the fire escape outside. The coffee started to kick in, and some more cobwebs fell away, leaving Clint finally beginning to feel alert and awake- still very sore, and stiff, and every injury and his head dully throbbing, but at least awake. 

He didn’t like painkillers. Well, he did in the sense that they did exactly what they were supposed to do, but they left everything cloudy, slowed down his thinking, affected his judgement. Even in the face of physical incapacitation, taking away one’s spatial alertness and awareness of their surroundings left them vulnerable to threats of every kind. In Clint’s line of work- hell, with his general lifestyle- it was a good way to get killed. However all that being said, sometimes, one had to weigh the pros and cons. 

He heaved a shallow sigh, tilting his head back and letting his eyes drift closed. “Time is it?” he asked, the warm coffee having helped soothed his dry, raw throat. 

“Hm, about 11:30.”

“What?” That didn’t sound right. It had only been a few hours?

“11:30, the next day. It’s Tuesday.” She gave him a sympathetic smile.

“Oh.” Last he checked, it had been Monday. He frowned. “Uh, how…?”

“Claire doped you up pretty good. She was nice enough to stay, on her day off and everything, an’ a few hours later, I came back.” He smiled, about to make fun of her, but she beat him to it. “Not,” she clarified, “because I care about you, but because I missed Lucky. Plus, had to take him on a walk, or you know he gets anxious- starts jumpin’ on people.”

“Mmhhm, don’t I know it,” Clint affirmed, recalling the traumatic experience from before he slipped into a drug induced coma.

“Anyway, we got to chatting.” This was the first time Kate had met Claire. 

Clint had met her a few times, the first being when his buddy, Matt- ah, Murdock, the guy who dresses up and goes play ninja in Hell’s Kitchen- got himself stabbed a little bit and had Clint help him to the poor woman’s apartment for a surprise drop in. That was a little bit awkward- Matt bleeding all over the floor and everything- but she didn’t seem fazed by it at all, like maybe it was a regular thing, or something. She and Matt seemed to be good friends, and Clint definitely wasn’t the person to ask, but that may have been flirting? The second time, Clint got in a little over his head with local New York gang that was expanding into Brooklyn- hey, not in his neighborhood they don’t. He took care of it, no one got killed- Clint didn’t do that when it wasn’t SHIELD business- but he was a little more than banged up. And guess who lived in the neighborhood? Well, she did give him her number for emergencies. The third time worked out kind of the same way. 

“She’s actually really nice, you know,” Kate resumed, finishing her coffee. “You came up in conversation multiple times- like how you keep getting your ass handed to you, and show up all beaten and bloodied. And how you have this stubborn tendency of not letting anyone help you, and refusing to go to an actual hospital- like, not even that place at SHIELD, which, you know, I broke you out of? You’re welcome, by the way.”

Clint had only shared the reason for his disdain of hospitals with Natasha, and only after years of relentless probing on her part. But, Natasha was not just his friend, but his partner, and, recently, something else- and he trusted her, not just to keep her mouth shut, but to understand. He loved Katie, he really did, but he didn’t think she would get it. 

“Thanks,” Clint said into his coffee, sipping from the mug. He didn’t care to explore the topic further. “But while you’re bashing me, do you wanna talk about how you not only called freaking Steve Rogers and Tony Stark misogynists, but wanted to fight them?”

She groaned dramatically, letting her head fall into her hands, her hair falling down around her to hide her face. “Nooooooo,” came her muffled cry of shame.

“You’re good Katie, but I think you might’ve bitten off a little more than you could chew with that one.” He chuckled quietly to himself, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Why didn’t you stop me sooner?” she complained, glaring at him.

“Because I was unconscious. And that was in no way my fault. Didn’t you, like, recognize them? Or put two and two together with their names and everything? Like, how many people do I know exactly, and that would check up on me? Not many.”

“See, and that’s why! No one, literally no one, except me an’ Nat, comes here looking for you. I’m sorry if I was trying to make sure nobody sent assassins after you, or something.” She crossed her arms, nose up, looking quite put off.

Clint winced at her raised voice. “Volume, Kate,” he chided. “Please.” He set his empty mug aside and laid back down, tucking his blanket cape up to his chin.

“Oh, sorry,” she said, looking guilty.

“When did Claire leave?” He hoped it wasn’t for two long; he really hated the idea of ruining her day off by forcing her to babysit his selfish ass.

“Maybe around 1? She said that your ‘condition’ was stable enough, but you would need like, a month maybe, to really get back on your feet. And then another month still before you can start doing any more strenuous heroing activities. Doctor’s orders- not that you’ll listen to ‘em, no doubt.” She jumped up and went to sit on the floor by Lucky, patting him while he waved his tail happily.

He just groaned in response.

“Also, that weird pager thing of yours with the SHIELD logo that always starts beeping and vibrating right before you run off to god knows where? Yeah, it started going off yesterday, and has been going off on the hour every hour since. It’s really,” Kate stressed, “annoying.”

“Aw, shit.” Clint buried his face in the blanket. That wasn’t good. 

All active SHIELD agents had what was basically a pager they kept with them at all times, which HQ used to contact them whenever they needed to report in for unexpected, typically emergency, time sensitive issues. Higher clearance level agents switched phones and contact information too much for them to get a call or anything, and it’s not like secure information could be just spoken about over the phone, so pagers it was. Because he had just returned from assignment, he was sure this was about him having gone AWOL from the med-bay, and needing to give a full debrief and file the assignment report still.

He wasn’t going in like this though. No sir. 

“Okay, go grab it, and on the bottom, you can slide the side down a bit. It almost looks like something you would take off the put batteries in? Anyway, there’s red switch beneath it. Flip that. It’ll stop.” 

“What, does that like turn it off or something?” she asked, moving toward his bedroom.

“Yes. Only to be used for the ‘most extreme of circumstances’, as I was told.” Clint buried further into the cushions, pulling more blankets up around him. “Kinda just givin’ ‘em a middle finger .”

She disappeared into the bedroom, and came back a few minutes later, tossing the pager onto the kitchen table already strewn with assorted arrows as she went. She hopped up onto the armrest of the chair where she had been sitting when Clint first woke up.

She just looked at him for a minute, though he had tugged a blanket over his head. He could feel her watching though.

“Clint?” she asked, sounding softer, more genuine, not the tone of their usual banter. “What did happen? I mean, how’d you get hurt?”

“Building fell on me. Told you that,” came his clipped response from beneath his covers.

“Yeah, I know, but, what were you doing? How come you didn’t make it out first?” She paused. “You’re usually pretty quick to get out of bad situations. Why not this time?”

A minute of silence. “Don’t wanna talk about it.” And he really didn’t. He closed his eyes hard beneath the blanket, willing the fresh memories to go away.

He heard her take a breath, then there was a sigh. “Okay.” She always was good at giving him space when he needed it. He thanked her silently for that.

“You hungry? It’s right about lunch time.”

“Yeah.” He was actually starving, and the feeling in his stomach gave him something else to focus on. He pulled the blanket off his head, turning his face to look at Kate.

She smiled at him- her usual, wonderful, Kate smile. “Wanna order pizza?”

“God yes.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Natasha had managed to wrap up her, ‘business’, in Uzbekistan, earlier than she originally thought that she would be able. An unexpected turn of events, namely an explosion in a certain foreign consulate that actually had nothing at all to do with her operation, had diverted a lot of attention away from her, and she had managed to get to her evac point across the border with the nuclear chemist that she was assigned to protect and get back to the States. He had been abducted by a terrorist cell, which, given his job description, was not an especially good thing. But, they got out quickly and quietly, and nobody got hurt. Well, neither of them got hurt, that is, and that was the important thing.

She had flown into New York, and on Wednesday morning, she had been picked up by an agent driving a SHIELD SUV at the airport- an Agent Rickson, level 1- and was on her way to headquarters for debrief when Rickson got a call, and explained, quite timidly, that his orders had been changed, and he was to drop her off at Avengers Tower. Apparently, a blue alert had been raised, and it had been kicked up the food chain to the Avengers. It wasn’t actually a call to assemble immediately and ship out- red alerts- but concerns had been raised, and they needed everyone there who could make it to work out the logistics, and decide it a SHIELD team, or the Avengers, were needed. Apparently, Agent Hill would be there with the intel, as well as Steve, Tony, Banner, and Thor, who had been on Earth at the time. 

Agent Rickson didn’t mention anything about her partner, and at level 1 status, and chauffeuring no less, Natasha seriously doubted he would know anything he didn’t already tell her about her partner.

Her arms crossed, she tapped impatiently at her elbow, anger and frustration welling up inside her. This was the last thing she wanted to be doing. She needed to be checking in on Clint at med-bay. She hadn’t heard anything or had the opportunity to call in since she had spoke with Steve, Tony, and Banner on the phone, and Steve had promised to bring him back in. She needed to see for herself that he was okay, or at least going to be okay. She knew that he hated med bay, and she knew exactly why; she felt like he needed her there, but there was the place she wasn’t going right now. 

When they pulled into the garage below the Tower, Natasha was out of the car with her black duffle bag of personal gear from her assignment in hand before the SUV even came to a complete stop; it was the only thing she had brought back with her. The SHIELD team at evac took care of the rest.

She stormed to the elevator- absent of Stark’s security personnel, unlike the lobby at ground level, because of the codes and ID required at the gates to the garage- and ordered Jarvis to take her up to the conference room, which was on the most secure floor that was designated to official Avenger and SHIELD business, and that also contained the armory. The AI must have recognized the signs of her foul mood brewing, because even the ever polite and level Jarvis didn’t respond or greet her as he usually did for everyone. He simply sent the elevator up.

When she threw the door open to the conference room, heads turned her way. Steve and Tony had been arguing over top of a series of images and maps Tony had holographically broadcasted at the end of the long table, Thor, looking a little odd to her in civvies, was listening intently to whatever they were each saying, and Banner was sitting at the other end of the table, having a much more quiet discussion with Maria Hill, who was sliding various enlarged pictures, maps, and files around on the table. They each paused in what they were doing.

Perhaps it was the stormy expression she wore, or the murder she promised in her eyes, or even the threat of serious bodily harm she put into her gate, but everyone in the room tensed visibly at the sight of her. Without waiting, she strode toward the nice, wooden conference table, and drawing her six inch combat knife from its holster at her hip- which made everyone start back, unsure of what her intentions were- she came to a stop in front of the middle of the table and stabbed down, the knife embedding itself nearly half an inch into the surface with the force of it. Natasha straightened us, hands on hips, flashing a thin, dangerous smile at everyone in the room.

Bruce was the first to speak. “Natasha,” he asked carefully, pushing his glasses up his nose as he looked down the table at the knife, standing upright in the wood where she had left it. “Is that, blood? On your knife there?” Everyone else in the room followed his gaze.

There was indeed dried blood crusted at the base of the blade and down the back edge of it, which had not come off when she had hastily wiped it mostly clean in the field. “Yes, it is. Excellent observation, Bruce. Would anyone like to know why?” She looked around the room, he cold expression betraying the smile, not that she was trying to convince anyone she was anything but pissed off at the moment.

No one said anything.

“No takers? Very well. There’s still blood on my knife because as of yet, I’ve not had the opportunity to clean it,” she snapped sharply. See, I came directly from the airport just now, and before that, I was in a place you all aren’t aloud to know about, doing things you don’t want to know about. Now, if you’re wondering why it is that I’m not thrilled to be here, it’s because I would much rather be taking care of things like this,” she indicated to the blade, “and not discussing another assignment.”

She snatched the knife, yanking it out of the wood, and tossed herself into a seat at the table, the chair rolling back slightly with the force of it. “So, now that you know where I’m coming from, someone please explain to me why my time is better spent here.”

Hill slid her a file down the table which she trapped under a hand, stopping it. She flipped it open, examining its contents while Hill began speaking. 

“A week ago there was a break in at a government operated contagious diseases research center in Prague. After initial reports suggested AIM could be responsible for the breach, despite the Czech Republic’s assurance to the international community that nothing was taken and no biohazards breached, SHIELD looked further into the situation. A team sent in to investigate just recently uncovered evidence of experimentation on a new form of biological warfare. We now believe that the data regarding this weaponized technology and how to create a deadly, synthetically altered virus, have been stolen in the breach.”

“Then why would the Czech Republic be covering it up? Weaponized bio-terror is obviously of global concern,” Natasha voiced.

“The government was responsible for the research in the first place, which was a breach of multiple international laws and the codes of the Geneva convention, and thus subject to UN investigation and repercussions,” Hill explained, crossing her arms and looking down at the spread of documents.

“They’re covering their own asses,” Steve cut in, looking more than a little displeased. “Consequences be damned.”

“Worse yet is how it’s been weaponized,” Dr. Banner remarked. “Basically, from what we can tell from these lab reports, the research involves mutating what are already some of the deadliest viruses in the world, and artificially, designing, if you will, strains of the virus, splicing different nucleotide sequences of multiple viruses together to create the desired effect. In theory, one could then take the worst aspects of each virus and combine them into one, worse than all the others. Unfortunately, the science is sound. It’s managed to combat the instability of viral DNA, the genetic code, when separated from the protein capsule and without a host.” He paused, shaking his head. “I don’t think there’s been any biotechnological advance with this great a potential for mass casualties before.” 

Tony picked up where Bruce left off, as they were likely the only two who understood the subject completely.“Sure, methods of using the adapting, mutating nature of retroviruses and using RNA as a base to reverse engineer various forms of viral DNA into one strain have been explored, but the problem there is that the resulting genome is still incredibly unstable. It would mutate and react just like a retrovirus, and that makes it unreliable as a weapon.” She leaned back in his chair, hands steepled, thinking. “There hasn’t been anything like this made known to the scientific community. Not even theories, postulates, nothing close,” Tony added. “But maybe you’d want to ask Hill here if our friends at SHIELD have heard of anything like this, and decided to sweep it under the rug. Not like they haven’t done that before.”

“Unfortunately, this is new to us, Stark. If we had any further intel, we’d share it, but we don’t,” Agent Hill said, her tone sharp.

“But was an actual sample of virus or the technology required to disperse it stolen?” Natasha asked?

“Luckily, no,” Hill answered. “Just the research and data that would enable AIM to create it. We don’t believe that the research facility had actually even created a final product, though, as they stated,” she motioned to Bruce and Tony, “it’s viable, and AIM can.”

There was a moment of silence as everyone digested everything they had just heard. Surprisingly, it was Thor who posed the next question. “How would this, research, be as great a weapon as you say, Stark?”

“The research mentions the ability to create the technology that would allow for a wider airborne dispersal radius, and the synthesis of the virus itself clearly involves the resulting strain not only being transmitted through the air as well as spread by contact, but it would remain viable in the air, outside of any host, for much longer that natural viruses can. As of yet though, just how long is unknown.”

“How is that unknown?” Natasha asked.

“Documentation is extremely limited, and only a few trial runs on only fragments of the overall project are mentioned in the file the SHIELD team uncovered,” Tony replied, not happy with the situation. “They didn’t actually create and test a final product.”

“What about the actual effects of the virus on the people who come in contact with it? Is there a way to immunize against it?” Steve inquired.

“There isn’t enough data here for us to determine what the specifics effects of the synthesized strain would be,” Bruce answered, still reading through the file, processing the information. “And to create a vaccine, we would first need an active sample of the virus itself, which we can’t do with such limited data to go off of. The chances of any strain we produce being even similar to the weaponized version, let alone identical, would be astronomical.”

“So, we’re completely in the dark. And we’re up against an enemy we can’t even fight.” Steve sank slowly into a chair.

“Oh, no,” Bruce said, having stopped reading but still staring at a page of scientific jargon. “I take that back. Shit.” 

That gave everyone pause. The good doctor did not curse. Not even a little. So whatever it was, it was not good.

“What is it,” Tony asked, sounding increasingly concerned as he moved to read over Banner’s shoulder. 

“We don’t know the end product, but the base virus they’re using is here in the footnotes.” Bruce took off his glasses, setting them down and rubbing his eyes. Tony snatched the file, reading through where he had indicated. 

“Holy mother of god,” Tony exclaimed, voice low and deadly serious. “Marburg?”

“Marburg,” Bruce agreed. 

“Okay, someone want to say what that is?” Steve asked, losing all patience.

“Only Ebola times twenty,” Tony said, dropping the file.

“It’s commonly considered the deadliest virus ever to have infected human beings,” Bruce explained more helpfully. “It’s an acute form of hemorrhagic fever, similar to Ebola, causing convulsions and bleeding of mucous membranes, the skin, and organs, if I recall correctly. No cure, survival rate varies greatly, incubation in the body takes from five to seven days.”

“Oh, you recall correctly,” Tony assured, though he wasn’t happy to do so. 

“And AIM has the data to develop a virus worse that this, and to develop the technology to weaponize it?” Natasha asked to clarify.

“That’s the assumption SHIELD is working on,” Hill responded.

“Okay.” Natasha nodded, taking this all in. “Looks like I should cancel my plans for this weekend.”

For the next hour, they poured over the data, the pictures taken from the break in at the research facility, and pulled SHIELD files regarding AIM activity in the past five years. Unfortunately, they decided, there was little they, the Avengers, could do about the situation, until SHIELD tracked down an AIM base, or found a lead among the personnel, the the money and paper trails, or found a new avenue of attack through coming at it the other end- figuring out what AIM would use such a weapon for, or who they would sell it to. 

It was also brought up that they could find the facility in which AIM was manufacturing the weapon, as well as track their progress, by keeping track of purchased equipment they would need, and stolen viral samples, which are highly restricted and regulated, and only available in a usable form in a few labs around the globe.

Luckily, Bruce and Tony estimated that it would take at least four months, working around the clock, to put the data to use, manufacturing the technology required for the synthesis and the dispersal of the virus, and creating and modifying the virus itself. That was assuming they already had the lab, viruses, funds, resources, equipment, specialized scientists, and privacy they would require. However, there had been no reports of thefts of virulent bio-hazard of the grade AIM would need, so even if AIM had everything else, for them to acquire those samples would take even longer. 

They agreed they could attempt to preemptively stall AIM’s ability to create the weaponized virus by heightening security at all facilities that had the viral sample AIM would need to do so. SHIELD would pass the threat of bioterror along to the UN, which would go a long way in helping that happen, but given the number of variables and the time AIM had on their side, it was highly doubtful this would stop them.

That left them with waiting, and watching.

When they had done all they could, and Hill had assured them that SHIELD was on it, searching for any lead, around the clock, they called the emergency meeting to a close. 

Natasha slumped in her chair, cradling her head in her hands. The whole thing hurt her head. There was this to worry about, a looming threat over their heads, with nothing proactive they could do about it, and then there was still Clint- god, she missed him.

She had told herself it was because he was hurt, because he would need her, but fuck if she didn’t need him too. She missed him. Simple as that- no point in trying to rationalize it or tell herself it was something else. (Clint had told her she did that a lot, and that sometimes, she shouldn’t) He had shipped out on an op a week before she did, and so it had been nearly a month since she’d last seen him. 

And it had been a little over four months since kissing him had suddenly become a thing. Not that anyone else could know about that.

She needed to go find him- felt an actual, physical need drawing her toward him. Was that what it was like? Caring about someone so deeply, so completely, that there was an actually, physical need to be with them… To see him, touch him, just to know- to assure herself- that he was alive and he was there and he was hers. Because he was. And she would approach anything or anyone who tried to take away what was hers with extreme prejudice. 

Tony’s voice behind her pulled her from her thoughts. “If you’re going to murder my furniture in the future, please give me a few days notice so I can order replacements.”

“I’ll try, but what can I say, sometimes the urge just hits me.” She swiveled her chair around to face him. “Better the furniture than a person, unless you’re volunteering…”

He winced. “Furniture then,”

A tired smile, just a slight pull at the corners of her mouth, though soft and genuine, made an appearance. She really did like Tony, even with all his sarcasm and sass; he was at heart a kind person, and not at all the selfish, obnoxious playboy the tabloids had so frequently made him out to be. He had changed a great deal since she had gone undercover as Natalie Rushman at Stark Industries. He was a good friend.

She heard Steve coming from around the other side of the table. “So, bad day at the office?” She cast a side eye at him, seeing he had given a slight nod at the damage she had done to the table. Couldn’t they just let that go already?

“Something like that,” she acknowledged, voice monotone, not betraying any trace or hint of how her last two weeks had been.

Natasha rose gracefully to her feet, snagging the handle of her gear bag as she did so. “Are you off to slay more defenseless mahogany furniture?” Tony asked, hands in pockets, eyebrow raised.

“No,” she corrected, “off to HQ to yell at one particular dumbass I just can’t seem to rid myself of.” She began towards the door, wanting nothing more than to excuse herself from all of this and just go to her partner, but she kept everything in check.

“Oh, right,” Steve sighed, looking guilty as hell as he looked down and away, hand going to the back of his neck- an obvious tell. It was enough to make her stop in her tracks, turning to face the two men behind her. Steve exchanged a glance with Tony, who began backpedaling with a deer in the headlights look on his face.

“Stop right there,” she ordered, looking sharply at Tony, who froze. She swiveled her pointed, icy glare at Steve, who winced. “‘Oh, right’ what?”

They both looked rather uncomfortable. “Clint, isn’t exactly at SHIELD med-bay,” Tony explained. She didn’t move a fraction, the only outward sign of the emotions beneath her stony exterior the flat, hard line of her mouth and tight clench of her jaw.

“He’s at his apartment still,” Steve said in a rush to explain all before she started pulling sharp bloody instruments back out. “We tried, we really did, but he really was having one of it- honestly-”

“The good natured Robin Hood impersonator who we knew and loved was replaced by a real dick,” Tony cut in, and Steve just shrugged and nodded his agreement. “The language from that one-”

“But he compromised, called a nurse friend of his-” he looked at Tony for help.

Tony snapped his fingers, recalling the name. “Claire something?”

“Yeah, Claire Temple,” Steve jumped to clarify.

“I mean, he’s alright, kind off…” Tony didn’t look so convincing as he trailed off, both he and Steve hesitating, bracing in wait for the onslaught.

But as frustrated and annoyed and so damn concerned as she was, the feeling of urgency to get to her partner hitting her in the chest like a tidal wave, she wasn’t exactly ‘angry’ with either of them. She knew exactly how Clint got when he was hurting, and she could imagine how it only got worse at two unexpected visitors showing up at his reclusive safe haven and place of solitary retreat. It wasn’t necessarily fair of her to task them with returning him to the last place he would willing go.

She shut her eyes, breathing in, out. Emotions in check. When she opened her eyes, the two grown men before her looked like scared children awaiting punishment, eyes wide, frozen in place. 

“If I weren’t more inclined to kill Clint right now more so than you two, you would not be getting off so easy,” she practically hissed. “This isn’t over.” She pivoted sharply on her heel, red curls snapping behind her, and strode from the room, each step purposeful and fueled by strong emotions between which she couldn’t quite distinguish or label.

As she stormed out, Steve and Tony just watched her retreating back until the door had fallen closed behind her, surprised. 

“O-kay,” Tony drawled, shuffling awkwardly. “Think we’ll ever see Clint again?”

Steve shook his head, looking bleak, but it was surprisingly Agent Hill that answered, coming up behind them, having watched the entire confrontation unfold.

“I’m sure it’ll be a lovely funeral.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Clint was feeling better. Sure, everything still hurt, but it was a dull kind of pain, like after the initial stages of agony are over, when if you try hard enough to distract yourself, you can ignore it. He had managed to get a shower, which was great, and re-wrap his injuries in clean bandages, which elevated his mood. And, his head had cleared up from the morphine, and his brain was back to processing everything with it’s usual speed and attention to detail.

And Kate had come back early that morning, and brought pizza wand Lucky with her, so yeah, everything was pretty good, and they had settled into an uneventful lull. That was about to change though.

The door to Clint’s apartment slammed into the wall as it was thrown open, making his and Kate’s head snap around from where they had been watching Dog Cops on the TV toward the sound that had interrupted Sergeant Whiskers’ chase scene. The quick reflexive movement hurt, just like everything else.

“Clinton Francis Barton, you are a dead man.” Natasha growled, looking pissed off and deadly and beautiful all at the same time as she stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the light from the hallway, shining off the red curls falling around her face.

“Oh boy,” Kate gasped, and she darted from the couch. “Lucky, abandon ship!” She leaped toward the dog that was finishing the last crust in a pizza box on the kitchen floor, scooped him up, crust still in his mouth, and fled for the window- her choice route of escape.

Natasha hadn’t moved, just remained as she was, a powerful, menacing presence filling up the cozy apartment. And she was staring daggers right at Clint, visible over the couch. Wow, if looks could kill.

When he had the audacity to flash her a weak smile, she started forward, slamming the door behind her, face like a thunder storm. Clint’s smile quickly turned into a wince at the expected hail of berating insults, threats, and the long rant on the topic of either his stupidity, his lack of a sense of self preservation, or quite possibly both. He hung his head in silence, and for a moment, considered removing his BTEs- but she might actually kill him for that. The yelling hurt his concussed head, though.

Despite the chewing out that was most definitely about to occur, he was actually very happy to see her. Everything hurt a little less, and his heart did a weird little fluttery thing. So he couldn’t help but smile.

As she rounded the couch to stand in front of him, her hands on hips, he began to say “Nat-”

“No. Don’t even.” She help up a hand, muting him. He slumped back into the couch, dejected. She looked him up and down, and reached forward with a hand to push his blanket cape off his shoulders, shirtless as he still was, revealing the wide variety of injuries and bandages and shoulder sling.

The tension in her body faded away, her eyes softening, anger and frustration that she had directed at Clint for getting hurt and not getting proper help while she was gone dimming and morphing into a sadness as she looked at him now. Seeing him like that hurt her, and she couldn’t stay mad at him.

She crouched down, eyes level with him, and reached out a gentle hand to brush his hair off his forehead, fingers carefully avoiding the cut above his eye, and dancing over the side of his face as she brought it to a stop, delicately resting at his jaw as she tilted his face up to meet her gaze. 

“Are you okay?” Her voice was soft, warm, overflowing with compassion and concern. 

His eyes fluttered shut for a fraction of a second at the gentle touch. “Mhhmm,” he hummed, flicking his eyes up to meet hers briefly as he turned into her hand, brushing his lips against her palm. He sighed, hot breath tickling her wrist, his eyes drifting half shut as he brought up his good arm and trapped her hand in place, lacing his fingers through hers.

“Is Kate going to come back?” she asked, not moving away.

After a moment of consideration, he replied, “Probably not. She thinks there’s about to be a murder in here.” He flicked his eyes up to meet hers again, kissing the inside of her wrist, a sly smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not about to murder me, are you?”

“No. For a moment there, I thought about giving you a stern talking to- something about idiocy and not taking care of yourself. I was working it out as I go. But, you know, I don’t think I’m even going to do that.” She stood, pulling her hand away from his face but keeping his fingers hooked in hers, and moved to sit down beside him, curling her knees up, leaning into Clint’s uninjured shoulder slightly, and holding his hand in both of hers in her lap. “I know you’ll nod and apologize but do it again next time; there’s just no changing you.”

The smirk broadened into a smile, a thin line of white teeth showing. “It’s not like I try to- to make this sort of thing happen,” He turned his head, resting his chin lights on top of her head as she tucked herself into his side and laid her head on his shoulder, very mindful of his injuries. “Believe me, I wish it didn’t.”

“Oh, I believe you,” she said, “but I also know you, Clint. You try too hard- it’s just who you are now.”

“I try too hard- what is that supposed to mean?” He sounded a little indignant, though he wasn’t put off enough to shake her off him and lose the contact he craved.

“You- you know exactly what it is that you do. You try to push yourself past your limits, and that’s when you get into trouble.” He didn’t say anything in response to that, but she could tell it left a bitter aftertaste with him, which wasn’t what she was trying to do. “I’m not insulting you Clint- I’m saying you haven’t accepted that you can’t save everyone.” She paused before continuing softly, saying, “And I get that. I understand. You know I do.”

Neither of them said anything after that, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable or tense or anything like that. Just, a mutual understanding, and an agreement. Besides, it had been almost a month since they had seen each other- neither wanted to hash anything out right then. Right now, they just wanted to sit there together, tucked into each other, comfortable and content.

The TV gradually pulled their attention to it, and Natasha broke the mutual silence, asking, “What are we watching?”

“Dog Cops,” came Clint’s response. “I’m catching up on this season.” He could feel her laughing quietly, and while he wasn’t looking at her, he just knew she had rolled her eyes at him.

“Why would I expect anything else?” She snuggled closer, smiling, and while it made his broken ribs sting momentarily, he didn’t care. “Cold pizza and Dog Cops.”

“Hey, so what, did you want a sappy reunion? Are we living in a rom com now? And if you can have Real Housewives, then I can have Dog Cops. Live with it, and if you complain, I’ll tell everyone.” He grinned smugly.

Her head shot up, her face inches from his own, exaggerated horror but some genuine surprise showing there in her wide eyes and raised brows. “You know about that? How? When?” She sounded a taken aback, almost insulted that he knew her secret.

He laughed, saying, “Like three years ago- I came by your apartment to pick you up for something, and you were out of the room, and I spotted the cases for the first four seasons of it under the edge of your couch- that was an obvious tell. And then maybe a year back, when we were finishing up that re-con job out of that hotel in Sarajevo, I was clearing the history on the TV when I noticed someone had been watchin’ it all day while I was out- had to be you.” He grinned at her bitter expression. “Hey, beginners’ mistakes. We all make them.”

“Oh shut up,” she grumbled, looking away. She shifted away from him, crossing her arms in a pout.

“Hey, your secret is safe with me, promise.” She just huffed, a tinge of pink spreading across her cheeks and nose, “Aww, don’t be embarrassed- you’re blushing. That’s adorable,” he teased, poking her arm.

“I am not,” she snapped, indignant. “I do not blush. And don’t poke me.” She turned her nose up and away from him, arms still crossed.

“Yes you do, right there,” he poked her face this time, and she slapped his hand away and jabbed his non-immobilized-by-the-sling shoulder. “Ow ow ow don’t do that I’m broken remember?” He flinched away from her, bringing his arm close to his side, and she looked immediately apologetic.

“Sorry, sorry. You okay?”

He straightened back up, then dropping his head to rest on her shoulder, laughed, “Yeah that actually didn’t hurt- just expected it to.”

“Jerk,” she muttered, but rested a hand on the back of his head as he hid his face in her neck and shoulder. 

She idly began to run her fingers through his hair, nails gently scratching at his scalp. He hummed in appreciation, rubbing his lips and a day or two’s worth of stubble over the soft pale skin of her collar- a scratching, but strangely pleasing sensation. She tilted her head back ever so slightly to give him more access, sinking back into the couch and closing her eyes as she continued playing with his short blond hair between her fingers. He noticed her shift, and she felt him smirk, his lips still pressed against the sensitive skin there as he brushed up her neck to below her jaw, and back to the top of her shoulder, repeating the process.

“Speaking of you being a jerk,” she continued, tugging at his hair a little less gently, not that he seemed to mind from if the humming into her neck was anything to go by. “I heard you were being a real dick to Steve and Tony the other day.”

“Speaking of jerk-like behavior,” Clint countered, “I heard you told those two assholes where I live. Guess I gotta move now, after everything I did to keep this place.” 

Her nipped the hollow of her collar, teeth flashing, eliciting a sharp inhale of breath from Natasha. She tightened her fist in his hair and pulled his head back from her neck none too gently in retaliation. He just smirked at her and bit his bottom lip, a flash of his tongue sweeping across and then a row of white teeth as he still smirked even through it, all holding her attention way more than such a small movement ought to. “Down boy,” she muttered before releasing her hold of him and letting him go back to what he was doing- she couldn’t say she wasn’t enjoying it. 

“You’re not fooling anyone, drama queen. No way you’re moving out just because of that- you love this place too much, and it would take way too much effort on your part.” 

“Hhmmm, maybe not,” he admitted, teeth scraping down the column of her throat, which was really distracting. 

A sound from the TV caught Clint’s attention, and he pulled away from her to watch, leaning backward to rest against the couch’s back. Natasha frowned at the sudden absence, but Clint just shushed her saying, “Oh, season finale’s starting.” She gave him a rather unimpressed side eye, but he just shrugged, reaching for the pizza box left on the coffee table. “You may not care, but I’m personally invested in seeing what happens next- can’t take any more damn spoilers from anybody.”

Natasha just resigned herself to sitting through the next episode of Dog Cops with her partner. Well, it’s not like she had anything else to do- not until tomorrow when she would go in to SHIELD for debrief on her last assignment. And maybe later that day, she would fill Clint in on the most recent emergency the Avengers faced. But, for right now, she didn’t want to think about the new crisis. She didn’t want to think about her assignment. She just wanted to sit there, eating cold pizza and watching this harmless show with the person she cared most about in the world. 

In their hectic lives, moments flew by and were gone in flashes. Hours, days, weeks were lost to grueling missions, assignments they could never be sure they were coming back from. So, at the rare times when they could slow everything down, they tried to make the best of what they had.

Natasha just wanted nothing else to matter. 

She shifted closer to Clint, holding him as tightly to her as she could without hurting him, as if at any moment, he could be snatched away from her. But she would never let that happen. Anyone who tried would have to go through her first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: Chapter 3 will be poster shortly, as of 8/13/2016


	3. friday night is poker night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the plot takes a back seat for a chapter (it will be back very soon)  
> enter other Avengers stage left  
> sorry if you think its boring but I quite enjoyed it so bite me :))))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! :))))) Ugh so it's been a while- my apologies. I got back and then life kinda got away from me, and then I lost all motivation and inspiration, but, see, then I watched this movie w/ Jeremy Renner and THEY KILLED HIM and I had the sudden urge to come back so I labored intensively over this for the almost the past week.
> 
> So, I'm updating again, but of course school is back in and my schedule is anything but predictable, so I can't say with any certainty when or how often. (Either shorter chapters sooner, or longer chapters farther apart? I'll take input here)
> 
> Finally, I know the timeline doesn't fit seeing as this series takes place before The Winter Soldier in MCU, but I really love Sam Wilson and his friendship with Steve so I'm taking full advantage of this being fan fiction, creative license and all, and saying that Steve just met him a lot sooner- same way I suppose though.

The carpet was fairly well worn, years of use having flattened down and rubbed away at the short, course, tightly bundled fibers that looped up and beneath again. The continuous wear, accompanied by the sunlight that splayed throughout the small room each day from the two large sheets of glass in the East wall, had worked to fade the color from what Clint assumed was once a deep blue to a sad, blue-grey looking color. Well, it wasn’t exactly a very old building, but he sincerely doubted that SHIELD spent any of its considerable budget to replace carpeting- still perfectly functional as it was, even if a depressing sight- on interior redecorating.

Clint was intimately familiar with this particular carpet in this particular room on the eighth floor of the East wing of the SHIELD operations building in New York City. Every month, per agency mandate, he had his psych eval in the exact spot was sitting, just like every other field agent- well, they didn’t all go to that same room of have the same shrink handle their case or anything, that would be ridiculous. But anyway, assignments needing immediate attention allowing, he reported to that same room at the same time on the same day, that being the third Friday, of every month. Given his last face-off with death and serious bodily harm, however, he had pushed this little rendezvous back two weeks, which was as fire as he could possibly get anyone to agree to. He didn’t exactly enjoy these things.

To be fair, he didn’t hate his shrink or anything; Dr. Isabella Hernandez, equipped with all kinds of degrees in behavioral psychology, clinical psychology, mental well being and the not-so-well state of being, experience in more approaches to therapy than Clint knew existed, and a SHIELD clearance level that matched his own so the excuse of ‘that’s classified’ was off the table (but hey, Clint’s a creative guy- he could do better than that). She was consistent, organized, unending in kindness and understanding, had the slightest of accents that made her already soft though confident voice quite melodic and easy to listen to, and she never failed to stay completely cool and in control of herself- even if Clint wished she would lose her composure and just get pissed off with him at least once.

Why get pissed off with him? Because, to put it quite frankly, Clint knew he’s the worst kind of patient. First, he’s an unabashed asshole with a never ending stream of bullshit commentary, sarcasm, and truly bad jokes. Second, all of that’s when he’s actually talking. Usually, the common procedure is come in, sit down, stare at the carpet or out the window for a half-hour minimum while the good doctor allowed the silence to go on, then finally say something the shrinks always want to hear when she breaks the silence with the first question. Usually, with the aforementioned bullshit, he can check all of the boxes in the last hour and a half of the two hour mandatory session and then get out of there, none the worse for wear, until next month. 

So, currently, Clint was trying to follow a single bundled strand of the carpet as it wove its way across the floor, and selecting another strand when it became too undecipherable, his eyes moving, and fingers idly tapping the armrest of the side of the couch he sat on, but otherwise, still as a statue. It was mindless, it was time consuming, and thus, it was easy. 

He flicked his eyes to the clock on the wall for a brief second, mouth forming a flat line in displeasure. It had been 50 minutes now. She always allowed it to go to almost 30 minutes exactly before speaking. Why was she deviating from their nice schedule? 

He took an easy breath, rolling his shoulders as he moved for the first time in a while, leaning back into the couch, and crossing his legs, chin propped up on his fist, that elbow propped on the armrest, and his other arm stretched out along the back of the couch. It had been a bit over a month and a half since he ditched med-bay, and while that had been plenty of time for some of his lesser injuries to heal up nicely, he still had to be cautious with his side, where he had been stabbed a little bit by a piece of broken rebarb. Yeah, that kinda thing takes a while longer.

For once he looked up at her face where she sat across the coffee table from him, an easy smile and soft eyes greeting him. He raised an eyebrow at her, a question.

“You do like to stick to routine, don’t you?” She tapped her pen against the clipboard in her lap.

He wasn’t sure if he was surprised that she had caught on to how exactly he divided up his time in the therapy he hadn’t signed up for but was forced to attend, but it wasn’t a stretch or anything. She was smart, had a keen eye when it came to reading people- even himself, he had come to realize- and while she had thus far taken the bullshit that he had ‘opened up about’ for the last year, he never really thought she actually believed him.

He decided he wasn’t surprised.

“Routine? No. Definitely not. Predictability though, sure,” he replied easily.

“How do you see there being a difference?” She looked genuinely intrigued, but she was also doing that thing she always did- he saw it coming, that jedi mind trick shit, where she got him talking about something in safe territory and then would spring something on him that was less okay to talk about in his books. And then it would take some real effort in the mental acrobatics division to combat the probing questions and redirected conversations.

“I bet you take the same route to work every day. You leave at the same time, in the same vehicle, like clockwork. Hell, you probably even stop at the same coffee shop along your route, same time, every day, same order. Am I right?” 

She tilted her head, perfectly sculpted eyebrows raised by the smallest fraction. She smiled at him as he paused. “Please, I don’t want to ruin it as you build suspense. Do go on.” Almost condescending, but not really- that was another reason he liked her.

He rolled his eyes. “Point is, that’s a routine. And it’s tactically ill advised and unsafe. But, despite your clearance level, your job means you aren’t on anybody’s shit list like I am, so you can order your nonfat soy latte at the same place and time every day, unlike me, unless I want to risk a side of arsenic or some of that crap the Russians are fond of nowadays. Which is, by the way, another reason I’m in favor of not having to be here every month the same time.”

“We both know that’s not why you come in here and complain for an hour each time.” 

Clint motioned out the window at the high rise buildings in his line of sight. He narrowed his eyes, hands moving in front of him to gauge the angle and distance, imitating as if he were sighting down the end of a sniper rifle. “All it would take is a high powered rifle and someone who knows how to use it. Personally, I’d situate myself up on the rooftop of the P&C building- good angle, sun’s behind you, the plaza and low buildings around it lessens the wind effect.” He straightened up and returned his attention to the good doctor, who was not looking too amused. “Just sayin’.”

She stared him down for a moment, gather her thoughts before speaking again. “So you avoid ‘routines’, as you put it, just like you avoid meaningful connections and contact with other people, just like you avoid asking for help or relying on anyone for anything. But you appreciate ‘predictability’, stability- as it may- because, it allows you to see three moves ahead so you can successfully run away from your problems? Am I right?”

Ouch. Where the hell did that come from? He didn’t even know how to respond to that. He didn’t move, didn’t say anything, eyes falling back to the carpet without really looking at it, and willed himself to turn invisible. That would be great.

He ran a hand through his hair, tilting his head back to stare at the white, unadorned ceiling and flopping back against the couch. “I’m sorry, please, tell me when I offended you. Jesus, did I kill your cat or something?”

Her reply was level as always, calm and kind and patient- boy did that start to annoy. “I’m not trying to hurt you, Clint. I’m trying to help you. I thought I could get there other ways; I was wrong.”

“Ya’ know, I thought we had something good here. No problems, checks all the little boxes, send me back on my way.” He shifted quickly, throwing his legs up onto the couch and lounging back on his forearms folded beneath the back of his head with an air of displeasure. “But please Doc, if you’re gonna start peeling open my head now to see how all the little gears work, let’s do it the right way. What, do you want to dissect my dreams or my big bad childhood first?”

He could see her, having not moved from her position, in the corner of his eye, but he refused to look at her. This was not what he wanted for his Friday afternoon. 

She sighed, an actually disappointed sound that made something inside him twinge uncomfortably. But that was him- Clint Barton, living trainwreck and utter disappointment. “You seem to think you’re the first person I’ve worked with who wants to be anywhere but here. Still, you may be the most difficult, which is saying something. All of the false bravado, all of the defensive sarcasm- it’s not getting us anywhere.” She paused, a heavy silence in the air. “We’ve been doing this dance for a year. And I’m not saying we haven’t gotten anywhere-”

Clint interrupted her with a frustrated laugh. “Apparently not.”

“You’ve made huge strides, particularly in the past five months or so, in dealing with what happened to you because of Loki in a healthy way. You can talk about it- you have talked about it- you don’t flinch whenever someone says his name anymore. And the important thing is, you’re moving on. Forgiving yourself.” 

Clint grunted something between affirmation and agreement, though refused to say anything. He needed to see exactly where this was going before he could decide the right course of action.

“That being said, I’m still concerned with the anti-social behavior you’re making your trademark. Trust issues and paranoia are to be expected from someone in your position.”

He rolled his eyes. He was alive, which was proof that a healthy dose of paranoia isn’t a bad thing if there really are people trying to kill you around every corner. 

“But,” she continued, “you have people you can trust- you have friends. A good step would be letting more people into your life than simply Agent Romanoff and Ms. Bishop.” She paused, looking at him purposefully. “You have to give people a chance, or they’ll never have an opportunity to earn your trust. Not everyone is out to stab you in the back.”

He narrowed his eyes, giving her a sharp look. Where was she getting this all of the sudden? Sure, he had talked about Natasha and Kate before, but she acted like she knew everything there was to know. He knew SHIELD didn’t pry that closely into his down time, and he definitely would have caught on if Fury put a tail on him. “You know, there’s this team of people I work with. We’re all kind of friends after being put in life or death situations all the time. And I sure as hell trust them to watch my back.”

“Holding people at arm’s length, shutting them out of your life, avoiding them for weeks at a time, even if you trust them to be capable of having your back in a combat situation, isn’t exactly what friends do. Friendship works both ways, in case you didn’t know, and it isn’t just for when the bullets are flying.” She looked dead serious too, but seeing his affronted and slightly ashamed demeanor, his head dipping and eyes falling to his worn boots, along with his lack of response, her features softened. “This is something you need to address Clint, and I think you’ll be better off for it.”

He dropped his head to his hands, his elbows putting the weight on his knees as his posture, once defensive and rigid, turned loose in something that felt like defeat. Fighting the matter really wasn’t worth the energy. 

“Easier said than done. Where to even…” he trailed off, shrugging his shoulders. He wanted to leave. He certainly didn’t want to do this. While it may not sound like a great option to a rational, unbiased observer, but to him, walking away from this and ignoring it sounded like a pretty good idea. 

However, there was still some 45 minutes left before he could leave (walking out early would put him in deep shit with Fury- he knew from experience), so that meant sucking it up and making the lady in charge of declaring him fit for field assignment again happy. Awesome. 

Honestly, he would rather be under actual, physical, very deadly siege right now.

She seemed sympathetic to his case though, and if anything was thrilled that he hadn’t shut her down immediately. “How about you start with an apology to Mr. Stark and Captain Rogers.”

He frowned, looking back up at her. “What- oh.” Right. That was pretty bad, from what he could recall- not that sedatives and painkillers helped in that department. “Wait,” he paused, wheels turning. “Hold on, who have you been talking to exactly?”

He saw something flash across her face- she was good, but it’s not like she ever had training in concealing stuff like that. What it was however, was something like a smidgen of guilt, but her re situated posture and firm stance didn’t suggest she regretted whatever was going on.

“Clint-” she began calmly, reassuringly, as though trying to settle a spooked animal.

“No, no, because I know Fury doesn’t give a damn about anything if it’s not relevant to the fieldwork, so SHIELD’s not been digging. So you’ve taken it upon yourself to root through my personal life- I see how it is.” Okay, he was a little pissed off, a little unsettled. He worked his jaw, a cold mask on his face as he stared off through the window to his right, taking a breath. Hold it right there Hawkguy. She didn’t deserve that- she had only ever tried to help. Calm it down. Calm it down.

She sat quietly now, watching and waiting.

It took all of four seconds for him to recompose himself. “So who then, and, why?” He returned his gaze, softened, back to the woman across from him.

“You don’t think people are capable of being concerned about you?” 

“No- I mean- yeah, but-” he shook his head. “Stop answering questions with questions.”

“I never breached confidentiality. Someone approached me with concerns- I can’t say who. You know that.”

There were very few people who knew about that. Very few. And of them, only one made sense. “That’s fine,” Clint answered, the slight panic he had felt rising over the matter quickly abating. “You don’t have to.”

He had stopped watching her reactions, but he knew she was filing observations away with some sort of commentary attached to them for later. He didn’t care. 

She took an audible breath, setting her clipboard aside and standing up, moving toward her desk. “Alright, let’s table this discussion for now,” she said, unlocking a drawer and retrieving a file of papers. “Like I said, that’s all something I think you need to address, but purely for your own good.” She came back to her seat, and dropped the file on the coffee table in front of Clint. “There’s something else we need to clear up before I sign off on your return to active duty.”

Oh boy. How about, no.

Clint winced at the offending file, recognizing it after seeing the classification restriction and operation code on the front page. He leaned back, arms crossing in front of him like a protective barrier between himself and the all too recent memories the documents were dredging up.

“Or we could not.”

“Clint, I’m being serious.” She retrieved her clipboard and paper, situating herself to begin actually taking notes for the first time since he walked in the door that day. “This comes down from the top.”

“Yeah, so am I. I finished it, okay? The op is over, the paperwork turned in on time, case closed.” His eyes hadn’t left the bundle of papers on the table until he forced himself to look away, returning to the ever present, familiar, mind numbing carpeting.

“There isn’t an issue with the operation, or your report. It’s all cut and dry-”

“Then what’s the problem?” Clint snapped a little more harshly than he intended. Dr. Hernandez, however, simply began to write something down in her continuous, spidery cursive. 

She stopped, looking toward him again. “I need you to tell me.” When Clint didn’t respond, she continued. “This report doesn’t read like your others. It’s completely dry. Quite frankly, there’s none of your usual bullshit. No character. If someone told me you didn’t write this, I would believe them.”

“I wrote it,” Clint muttered after a moment. 

A pause. “I know,” she replied. “However, there are a few things you jump between in here,” she said, tapping the file with her pen. “Maybe you could clarify them for me.”

Clint knew exactly what she was up to. But that was her job, wasn’t it? To find the things that hurt and poke at them until she knew that they wouldn’t cause him to snap in the field. He rubbed at his temples, a headache forming. His mouth felt dry. “What’d you wanna know?”

He was only half listening to what she said next, the sights and sounds from that night in Cairo coming back to him unbidden and unwelcome. He took a breath, feeling altogether too numb.

She flipped open the file, settling back. “By 1835 hours, you had confirmed the identity of David Branimir, Serbian national wanted by Interpol and half a dozen countries for ties to organized terror. You were on track to reach the evac site at 1900 hours and had called in the pre-arranged airstrike, as coordinated between the involved parties. However, at 1847 hours, you are recorded as having attempted to delay the strike on account of civilian life in the red zone, but were ultimately denied. Now, you never made it to the evac site, and after detonation, you were injured due to building collapses just passed the border of the yellow zone.” She stopped, trying to get a read on him, but he was stone cold, betraying nothing. “Clint, what happened between 1847 hours and impact?” she asked, sounding genuinely empathetic.

There was a long pause. He wasn’t exactly sure for how long the minutes dragged on, as he stopped paying attention. Finally though, he spoke up, slowly moving his eyes up to meet hers.

“Did you know that Branimir had a son? Barely ten years old.” Based on the reaction that passed her face, he continued without an answer. “Yeah, neither did I at first.”

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

After this rather unpleasant ordeal on what otherwise would have been a pretty decent Friday, Clint decided to walk home, or, that is, to walk for about 40 minutes until he decided it wasn’t worth it and took the subway for the rest of the way back. Although it was early December, it had yet to snow and the wind wasn’t too bad, so his favorite leather jacket over a warm hooded sweatshirt, jeans, and boots worked well enough to insulate him from the cold. Besides, he had wanted to clear his head anyway. Every icy breath that stabbed his lungs helped to make him more concerned with the freezing numbness that was taking over his hands than the phantom echoes of AK-47s firing and ATG missiles exploding. Still, he didn’t care for the cold, and was only willing to subject himself to so much.

And thank god for the subway system. A bus could have taken him closer to home, and a taxi could have dropped him off out front, but as a matter of personal precaution, the trains of public transit were the way to go. It’s too easy to follow taxis or impersonate drivers, and thus get yourself and your hapless victim alone in a confined space. On buses, it’s a confined space with windows on all sides and no cover whatsoever, and there are too few civilians around to make the exposure too costly for a determined assailant. 

But the subway is perfect. There’s enough security cameras and personnel to deter assailants, but not enough to make slipping through unnoticed impossible, big crowds also work as deterrents, but they also provide cover and camouflage when you need to disappear, the train cars are big enough and have enough doors and frequent stops to allow for mobility, and finally, it’s perfectly acceptable to run like death is snapping at your heels and no one will think anything of it (even if you are literally running for your life).

Anyway, a few stations and a pleasing lack of unpleasant surprises later, Clint was making the short walk back to his apartment. As he trudged up the stairs to the top floor, thoughts about Dr. Hernandez’s words lingered. Normal human interaction was a healthy thing, sure. Having friends was good, yes. Not holding friends at arm’s length, also positive. Putting effort into trusting people because they’re your friend, and not just because you’re in a life or death situation, on the ‘to do’ list. Maybe. Eventually.

Or, he could crash on the couch with Lucky, some pizza and a beer, and watch Dog Cops, all on his lonesome given that Katie was away for the weekend… yep, sounds good. He opened the door and was greeted by his favorite shaggy mutt as Lucky came skidding around the corner at top speed, also failing to stop before running into Clint’s legs, nearly taking him to the floor if he hadn’t caught himself on the door frame. 

“Whoa there buddy, calm down. Jesus, calm down,” Clint urged as Lucky spun around his legs, alternating between jumping up on him and leaping away, rear end up in the air and tail wagging happily as he pounced at Clint’s boots playfully. Closing the door behind him, Clint shed his jacket, sweatshirt, and boots, welcoming the familiar warmth of his humble abode. That done, and Lucky’s short attention span now occupied by growling at the birds outside the window on the fire escape, Clint retrieved his hearing aids from his pocket (he had taken them out because they tended to become very cold and uncomfortable) and settled them back in his ears.

He immediately became aware of the sound of a shower running- his shower running- down the hall. What the ever-loving fuck? Of course his mind’s first impulse was to scream ‘danger’ and he went for the handgun in the back of his belt, but then of course nothing happened, so the whole thing became very awkward because he had walked right into this, was quite late to respond, and then found himself standing in the kitchen, gun drawn, and nothing happened. No track suit mafia behind the corner, no hit men or past villains with a vendetta, nothing. 

But then, nothing was out of place, and Lucky was perfectly happy, and nobody was trying to kill him, so he put the weapon away. There were very few people- and by that, he meant exactly two- that the mystery invader could be. And Kate was out of town, so...

He made his way down the hall and knocked on the bathroom door. “Nat? That you?” he called through the door.

“Obviously,” she replied, words muffled through the door and the sound of running water.

That settled, Clint returned to the living room, stretched out on the couch, and closed his eyes for a few moments. It was only around 6 o’clock. He hadn’t meant to drift off, but he didn’t exactly have reason to fight it either. 

He was jolted out of his light nap some short while later by Natasha, who was clad in a robe she had left here for convenience’s sake and a towel wrapped up around her wet hair, plopping down besides him on the couch by his knees. He grunted noncommittally, though shifted to make a little more room for her, stretching his arms over his head and arching his back as he did so.

“Not saying you’re not welcome to it, but why were you in my shower?” 

She tugged the towel down from where it was twisted around her hair and shook her head back, shaking her hair out to fall behind her, a multitude of small water droplets escaping the damp crimson strands and splattering Clint as she did so. As she began toweling her hair dry, she answered, “I was at the gym,” referring to the training floors of the SHIELD operations building, where Clint had also been, though for very different reasons.

“I’m pretty sure they’ve got showers there,” he teased, humor tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“Walker showed up. Didn’t feel like dealing with her.”

Clint hummed in understanding. His partner and another agent, Amelia Walker, didn’t get on very well. There wasn’t even any particular instance of conflict between them- it was just little things that made it best if they didn’t stay in the same room together for too long.

“Besides,” she continued, “your place is pretty close, and I wanted to see you afterwards anyway.”

“D’you drive here?” he asked

“Yep.”

“Park on the street?” 

“No. Lot out back.”

“Hm.” That explained why he didn’t see her car- a black mustang which he quite liked. “Good. Street cleaners come by today.”

“Ah.” 

A comfortable silence ensued, Clint lounging back and Natasha busy drying her hair and combing her fingers through the shoulder blade length strands to detangle them. Lucky returned from his vigil at the window to sit on the ground beside him, tail thumping into the hardwood floor heavily, his head resting on the couch cushion by Clint’s forearm, and began whining until Clint gave in and scratched him behind the ears. 

When she was done, Natasha through the towel over the back of a chair and turned to look at Clint expectantly. “So.”

“So,” he responded, matching her tone.

“Are you going to tell me how it went?”

“You didn’t ask,” he responded easily.

“And you didn’t ask me to not punch you in the kidney, so I’m about to,” she said in turn, the lightness of her tone unchanging, though she shifted as if to follow through on that and Clint jolted upright, hands out to stop her just in case.

“No, no no. None of that please.” He scooted backward, sitting up, and lowered his feet to the ground, Lucky laying down next to him at the base of the couch. Natasha moved to sit more comfortably beside him, leaning into his shoulder. 

“Did she sign off?”

“Yep,” Clint answered, exhaling. “Cleared to resume active field assignment pending physical health eval, but as soon as I can get that taken care of I should be fine. Just need to find a medic I can intimidate so I can walk in, get a signature, get out. Skip the rest of the bullshit.”

“Mmhhm, I recommend O’Neill. He owes me a favor, and he’s a complete push-over.”

“Good to know.”

“No problem.”

Another few moments of silence passed as they both watched Lucky hunt around the living room space for one of his badly mangled tennis balls. Natasha tucked her feet up beneath her and leaned into her partner, who put an arm over her shoulders. 

“Nat?” 

“Hmm?” She turned her head to face him, though he continued watching Lucky trot back and forth across the room in front of him, investigating the baseboards for the scent of some bygone crumbs or something

“Are you ratting on me to my shrink?” he asked quite bluntly, voice level and tone pleasant, not indicating in any way how he felt about that possibility- mostly because he didn’t know himself.

If she was surprised or alarmed, she didn’t show it. She didn’t react at all, actually, only blinked at him when he finally turned to look at her. In the seconds that followed, both attempted to get a read on the other- any sort of insight into what thoughts went through their head- though neither were entirely successful. Natasha, however, with a breath slightly deeper than the usual, cut right to the core of the issue.

“Yes. But not the way you imply.” 

Clint wasn’t sure what to expect, maybe a ‘why would you say that’ or something else, but not a simple yes. And while it initially hurt in a weird sort of way- not the traditional hurt- he wasn’t going to come to any conclusions before he gave her a chance to say whatever she was going to say. He owed her that much.

She continued, expression still bland and emotionless, carefully concealing the unease, what was almost fear, not knowing what was about to happen. Not knowing what he would do or say or think. “I went to speak with her once. Conversation lasted about five minutes, and I didn’t say anything you wouldn’t want me to.” There was extra force behind the her words as she finished, barely detectable, emotion she couldn’t help welling up in her throat.

And he believed her- there was absolutely no doubt. Whatever her reasons, whatever she said, he trusted her. “Okay.” He nodded, and relaxed back into the couch, loosening muscles he hadn’t been aware he’d tensed. A clear signal that he was fine, they were fine, and he was willing to let the whole matter go right then.

Natasha curled back into him as he looped an arm around her waist and pulled her back toward himself. Her head resting on his shoulder, she wasn’t quite finished. “I wanted to know what happened in Cairo.” 

“You knew I hadn’t been in yet,” Clint said, rather than the obvious, being that she could have asked him, because he hadn’t exactly been forthcoming on the issue. In fact, he had made an effort to avoid discussion of the matter all together. He knew that it had concerned her, and he hated feeling like she was only ever concerned or worried about him, that being when she wasn’t actively attempting to save or kick his ass, but really, it wouldn’t have done anyone any good to talk about it. There were a few things that Clint would rather permanently shelve in the very back of his mind than keep pulling out and dusting off to go over again, and he wasn’t even talking about his own supreme fuck ups (which although they were few and far between, he could, and did, have to discuss in great detail) or bad shit that happens to him (aka Loki).

“No, but she had access to the file, not that she was about to tell me. Something about it being confidential and none of my business, apparently.” The small smile that got from him went a long way in reassuring herself that he didn’t hate her for prying at an obviously very sore wound.

“And then?” he prompted, grunting as Lucky, who must have had a sixth sense for tension in the room, jumped up onto the couch and into his lap- a rather bad habit of his. He was no lap dog.

Natasha lifted a hand to pat the dog’s head, which he had rested on her knee. “In my effort to explain how it was very much my business, I resorted to the ‘I am very concerned for my partner’ card. She wanted to know how you’d been since you got back, and I may have mentioned the whole skipping out of med-bay, although it wasn’t exactly new or out of the ordinary, and the Steve and Tony situation, plus I couldn’t get anything out of you about it. That was it.”

Clint sighed, saying, “That explains Hernandez's sudden desire to talk about how I am apparently socially inept when it comes to my personal life and don’t know how to have friends. That was awkward.”

Natasha winced. “Sorry.”

“Nah, it’s whatever.” He barely managed to dodge a paw to his face when Lucky began squirming and rolled over in his lap, his legs flailing when he nearly fell off the couch. “Not exactly wrong anyway.”

“Hm, you’re admitting that?” Natasha raised an eyebrow at him, a delicate smirk on her face.

“No, definitely not.” Clint gave in the Lucky’s pleading and scratched his belly. “So did you get the file?”

“The barest of bones. I’ve got the basics, but obviously,” she gave him a look, “there’s a lot I don’t know.”

“A lot you don’t want to know.” The saddened, honest look from Natasha that earned him gave him a tightened feeling in his chest, like cold metal constricting his heart. 

“You’re doing that thing again. You’ve got this idea that you have to do everything by yourself.” She reached over, forcing him to look at her. “I’m your partner Clint, in more ways than one. Don’t shut me out. I’m getting a strong feeling of deja vu.”

What would have been a drawn out pause was broken by Natasha’s laugh and Clint’s curses when Lucky chose that time to flip around and begin licking Clint’s face, either annoyed by the lack of attention he was being shown or wanting a walk- probably both.

“God dammit, get off you mutt. Clint pushed Lucky off of him, much to the dog’s chagrin, and stood, offering a hand and pulling Natasha up with him. He pulled her close, closing the distance between them, his arms around her waist and hands clasped behind her, her arms wrapping around her chest as she hugged him closer. Pressing a kiss to the top of her head, he murmured, “I’ll tell you Nat, whatever you want to know. But I’ve already gone through it once today. Please, just… not right now.”

She hummed her agreement, resting her head against his shoulder and snuggling closer to his neck, beneath his chin. They were rocking ever so gently back and forth, standing there in the middle of his living room, arms wrapped around each other. “On two conditions.”

“Okay.” 

“We go to poker night. And this time, I get to win. It’s not even fair how you keep taking it.”

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Yeah, sure. But I think they might be onto us.”

“No. Tony’s onto you. He thinks that you cheat, and he might have convinced Steve, but they don’t know how, and they have no idea that I’m involved.” 

“No?” He grinned, relaxing more into their embrace.

“Nope.”

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The tower looked beautiful at sunset. Vibrant colors reflecting off of the glass, lights lit up, the New York skyline framing it… yeah, Clint could appreciate that kind of thing. 

It was only 7 o’clock in the evening but the sun was well on it’s way to vanishing behind the horizon. But that’s winter for you. All the as left were streaks of color in the quickly darkening sky. It was a shame the light pollution given off by the city masked the stars; it had been a long time, but Clint could vividly remember the millions of glowing orbs suspended in the sky above the grassy fields outside his childhood home whenever the sun set. When the weather provided, he and his brother would often sneak out to this clearing in the thin forest near the house and camp out. Those were good times, but then he recalled that they snuck out to escape the chaos and fear that surrounded that household, and if their father was sober enough to remember their absence, they were punished for it.

And it was those memories that were the reason he was never going back.

Clint drove into the parking garage beneath the tower, the gates opening automatically when Jarvis read the plate number, the make and model of Natasha car, and both of their heat signatures and facial scans- via the security cameras. From there, they could take the elevator up to the communal floor where everyone would be gathered. (Given a small miscommunication a few months back, Tony had reorganized the security presence for all of them upon entering and exiting the tower.)

As Clint pulled into a designated parking spot, Natasha piped up, “If you’d have let me drive, we would have been here fifteen minutes ago.”

“If I’d have let you drive, we would have killed someone along the way. No thanks.” He turned the car off, ducking out, Natasha following suit.

“I’m an excellent driver. What are you talking about,” she retorted, closing her passenger side door with a little more vigor than necessary.

“You’re a tactical driver. There’s a difference.” When she snorted in protest, and he was sure she was rolling her eyes, though he didn’t see, he said, “If we were driving through a hail of bullets, pursued at top speed by multiple unfriendlies down the expressway, I would want you behind the wheel. But on crowded city streets on a Friday evening?” He gave her a pointed look. “I’ve got it.”

She couldn’t help but smile at that as she stepped through the open doors of the elevator behind her partner. Dinging shut, they began their ascent at the gut-dropping usual speed.

“Think we should have given them a heads up we were coming?” Clint asked as the floors passed, lights flashing above the glossy metal of the doors reflecting their images back at them.

“I don’t think it matters,” Natasha said, taking her eyes away from the flashing digits to glance over at him. “I think Stark likes surprises, though I’m sure Jarvis has already told him we’re here.”

“Quite right you are, Agent Romanoff,” the familiar, just noticeably robotic voice added, addressing them for the first time. “Mr. Stark and company are expecting you.”

“Well there you have it.”

Clint’s mind wandered to other issues at hand, like how this would be the first time since Tony and Steve showed up at his apartment that he would have to interact with them, which would surely test the limits of his capacity for awkward social interaction, seeing as how they had not left on very good footing. He supposed that he owed them an apology for, well, for being such a complete dick. But then, he hadn’t asked them to barge in on him when he was more than slightly out of his mind with pain and painkillers and try to drag him out of his protective bubble.

No, he hadn’t, but Natasha had. So, he started running a few different scenarios through his head.

All too soon however, the elevator came to a stop and the doors clicked open. As they entered the lively atmosphere, Clint and Natasha were greeted by the sounds of laughter, boisterous conversation, and general merriment from the small crowd gathered in the center of the communal living space at the couches and chairs around the large coffee table. The Christmas decorations Tony had already placed in excess around the room added to the festivity of the gathering, strung lights blinking across the ceiling, holly, mistletoe, and evergreen accenting the wall space, doorways, bookshelves, tables, and cabinets in the open kitchen space in abundance, and a massive Christmas tree, every limb weighed down with ornaments, ribbon and twinkling lights winding around from its base to its point. 

Clint was surprised by some of the faces he saw gathered around. Tony, Pepper, and Banner were seated on one of the couches, Steve standing behind them and leaning forward on his elbows into the conversation. Sam Wilson, a friend of Steve’s who had been introduced to the group a short while ago- though who had been quickly accepted and well liked by all in that time period- was sitting on the edge of an over sized armchair that had been pulled over to the table from its usual position closer to the windows. Jane Foster was seated next to Thor on the second couch across from them, and Darcy Lewis, who he hadn’t seen at first, was sitting cross legged on the floor at the end of the coffee table shuffling cards. 

He hadn’t known that Thor was in town- by which he meant he hadn’t known that Thor was on planet Earth. However, he obviously was, and he had brought along his girlfriend Jane and their friend Darcy, both of whom the rest of the team had quickly befriended. 

Even more surprisingly, Maria Hill, Fury’s right hand who was also sort of working as the Avengers/SHIELD go-between (liaison, if you will), was sitting at the far end of the same couch as Thor and Jane. She hadn’t really been to any strictly social gathers like this, but she had been integrated into the team more cohesively in the past few months, and everyone seemed quite comfortable with her being there. She and Pepper had formed quite the friendship, as evidenced by the two being currently emerged in ardent conversation across the short gap of the coffee table, though the whole thing didn’t surprise either Clint or Natasha one bit; both were business minded, driven, independent women who had worked their way up in their careers in fields dominated by men, and who had to put up with The Avengers and Co., which was not a task for the weak of heart.

Clint followed at Natasha’s heels as they approached the group, hands in pockets, not entirely sure what to do with himself as he and his partner were met with pleasantries thrown their way, hands raised in greeting, and grins all around. In Thor’s case, he rose abruptly from where he was seated as the two rounded the back of the nearest couch, clapped Natasha firmly on the shoulder and pulled Clint into a brief one armed embrace- apparently a warrior thing? Though, what it lacked in duration he made up for in vigor, leaving Clint’s almost completely healed side with a slight twinge, but it subsided in a second.

The taller, much broader and heftier demigod- alien? Clint had yet to work that out- was grinning widely, speaking in his usual archaic-sounding, slightly booming voice as he released the archer and stepped back to face the two newcomers as well as the rest of the group.

“Barton! Lady Natasha! It’s wonderful you both could join us on this day of celebration.” 

“Oh? What are we celebrating?” Clint asked, a grin steadily spreading across his face, Thor’s jovial state apparently infectious.

“The coming of the Yuletide season, of course! I am learning much about your people’s traditions.” He all but herded Clint and Natasha in closer to the group as he spoke, arms outstretched behind them as he stepped forward. Clint ended up perched on the armrest of the chair Sam was occupying, Natasha squeezing in beside Pepper. (Pepper, along with befriending Hill, had also become a friend of sorts with Natasha, though Clint’s partner was very slow to make friends, the exact opposite being true for Pepper, so that was still an ongoing process.)

With Thor reseated, pulling Jane in close beside him, various conversations around the circle were renewed, and while all of the chatter at once proved a challenge for his aids to pick up, he caught bits about this and that, ranging from Tony, Bruce, and Jane discussing something about laws of thermodynamics, to Thor questioning Steve about the importance of chimneys to this ‘Santa Claus’ character and Darcy struggling not to laugh, to Pepper asking where Natasha got her stilettos, which led into both Pepper and Hill being quite fascinated by a summary of how tracking an Italian mob boss down in the streets of Vienna led her to discover the most wonderful little boutique store. 

Though he was quite happy to listen and observe, Clint’s attention was called back by Sam, beside him, nudging his elbow saying, “Hey man, long time no see.”

“Yeah,” Clint agreed, nodding, “I’ve been, uh, busy, I guess.” 

“Mhhm, I heard you got laid up pretty good,” he said, not looking concerned or hesitant or any of the various states Clint was so used to seeing people in when they were treading on a sore topic, but rather, looking like there was something funny about it. It was an entirely refreshing change of pace.

“You could say that.” He narrowed his eyes at the other man, trying to gauge what it was that had a smile growing on his face. “I’ve had a lot worse though.”

“But you’re good though? No lasting trauma? No missing limbs?” He patted Clint’s shoulder playfully.

“Yeah. Back in business.” 

Sam paused, shaking his head, laughing quietly to himself. “Well that’s good. That’s good. But you know man, when are you gonna learn?”

“When am I gonna what? You got something to say. Wilson?” Clint asked, mocking offense taken. “Go on, say it.”

“I mean come on, if you’re not falling off a building, a building’s falling on you. But I guess that’s what happens when you insist on using a bow and arrow. Sure, maybe that was effective, for like, a caveman or something. But now you got guys coming at you with assault rifles and grenade launchers and shit, and you’re gonna be like,” Sam mimicked- and a rather poor imitation it was- drawing back an invisible arrow and releasing, laughing, “got one.”

Clint was laughing now also at the good humored attack on his pride. “Oh you wanna go, Wilson? You wanna go? I can kick your ass anytime, any day.” 

Sam was about to respond when Pepper cut in. “Hey, no fighting, no talking about ass kicking. It’s almost Christmas,” she said accusingly, pointing between the two men. “Steve, tell them no talking about ass kicking near Christmas.”

“No talking about ass kicking near Christmas,” Steve parroted from the other side of the group without even bothering to look over at the offending individuals, earning a chorus of laughter from everyone, who were all now paying attention, drawn out of their separate conversations.

Clint, smiling, bent down from his elevated seat on the quite spacious armrest to be eye to eye with Sam, and pointing at Steve, said, “At least I don’t use a dinner plate.”

As Sam doubled over laughing, Clint hopped up and walked over to grab a chair from the kitchen space, not only intent on acquiring his own seating but wanting to leave with the last word from the good humored banter. When he moved away, the rest of them decided it was a good time to replenish beers and drinks all around, and about half of them moved off them splintered off in the direction of the bar and kitchen.

While Jane and Banner pulled beers from the refrigerator and Darcy grabbed a bowl of chips, Clint saw Tony and Steve at the bar to the side a little ways off from everyone else, Steve grabbing down glasses and Tony searching through what Clint was sure was an incredibly expensive selection of scotch. Well, if he was going to address this, and he felt that he should (plus Natasha had made it clear on the drive there that if he didn’t, she would put him in the trunk and drive across the state entirely off road), now was the time. He just hoped it didn’t make the rest of the night too terribly awkward.

Leaving the chair he had gone to collect in its original place at the kitchen table, Clint silently made his way over to the two men who had their backs to him, aware as he did so of Natasha turning and watching for a brief moment or two before turning back away.

Clint passed them, rounded the bar, and came to a stop across from Tony and Steve on the other side. Tony glanced up looking between two glass decanters in his hands, surprised by his sudden appearance, and Steve straightened up, setting the final glass that he had pulled from where it had hung on the hook above the bar down. 

“Hey-” Tony started, though he stopped when Clint began to speak.

“I feel the need to apologize,” he blurted, having no idea what he was about to say next, just praying it wasn’t too awful.

Both looked a little surprised at that, eyes widening a fraction, Steve shifting and squaring off his stance, Tony blinking a few times glancing over at Steve, then Clint again. Steve spoke up first, saying, “Look, you don’t have to-”

Clint winced, shaking his head. “Thanks Cap, but I do. I don’t really remember everything,” he paused a fraction, “but I remember enough and know enough about myself to say that I was a complete asshole, and you guys didn’t deserve that. I know Natasha asked you, and it’s my own damn fault anyway, and I know you were just trying to help, so, sorry.” The words spilled out of his mouth in a rush, and then he had nothing else to say, and stood there feeling awkward. 

Steve nodded, and looked like he had something sensible to say when Tony beat him to it. “Yeah you were a total dick.” Clint winced at that, smiling ruefully, but he continued. “However, it wouldn’t be really fair of me to hold that against you, seeing as we barged in on you, and you weren’t, quite… yourself,” he finished, searching for the right word. “But you know, you have a dog you never told us about- real dick move there, Barton. I don’t know if that’s forgivable.”

Steve inhaled to add something, but paused, and simply shrugged in agreement. “You okay though?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.” 

“Okay then. Scotch or Bourbon?” Steve asked, already putting the whole matter behind him, which Clint was exceedingly grateful for

Clint huffed a small laugh that lifted his shoulders. “Scotch, on the rocks.”

“Ha, man after my own heart,” Tony quipped, and began pouring. 

A moment passed by significantly less awkwardly than the past ones. “Ah, Steve, one more thing.”

“Yeah?” 

“I might be wrong, but I seem to recall you, signing? Something? Like, ASL? No?” Clint shifted his weight from foot to foot, unsure.

“Well, yeah,” came his response. “I’ve been learning- trying to learn, more like.” He shrugged, fingers drumming the counter top.

“Oh.” A pause. “Why-” Clint’s thoughts stumbled over themselves in his head and unfortunately managed to stumble out of his mouth too. “No one’s ever- besides Natasha anyway- not-” He cut off anything further, shaking his head and looking down and away, scratching the back of his neck.

“I thought it was the obvious thing to do- I mean, a teammate relies on it, and if something happens to your aids in the middle of battle- It’s, tactically speaking, probably best if more than just Natasha can communicate with you.”

“Yeah, right.” He nodded. “Uh, thanks, I guess.”

“No problem.”

“I guess you and Natasha will have to find a different way to talk about us while we’re in the room,” Tony interjected with a grin, earning a slight smile from Clint and a huff of laughter from Steve.

“Well, you’d be surprised. We have our ways,” Clint answered with a sly grin.

He helped carry the drinks back to the group and passed them around, noticing that another armchair had been brought into the circle in the space between Sam’s chair and Hill at the end of the couch, and settled into the spot with his own in hand. He was never much one for recreational drinking around around other people- that’s paranoia for you- but he pushed that nagging thought aside. He was in the tower, which was probably one of the more secure places on Earth- except in the case of something drastic like an aerial attack in which case he was screwed anyway- and he was with friends who also happened to be the Avengers (and company). 

Once everyone was seated again, the conversation began again in earnest, the atmosphere light and filled with peels of laughter and faux-indignant responses as they poked fun at each other, all in good humor, and regaled in stories about about past exploits and terribly amusing or embarrassing failures.

Clint was pulled into the comfortable lull of conversation and laughter, and found himself watching Natasha as she was telling a story about a brief stint she spent in Prague. She was animated, eyes bright, a smile that lit up her face, her hands moving, illustrating as she spoke. She looked genuinely happy. Clint was listening to what she was actually saying less and less, her voice and everyone’s laughter blending together in the background, but it struck him when he realized that just seeing her that way- lighthearted, untroubled, happy- was enough to send his heart fluttering in a weird way. Ugh, sounds terribly sappy, and he would rather eat his own arrows than say that aloud, but wow did he care about her.

He was pulled out of his reverie as she finished speaking, and Tony stood up, addressing the group at large. “Well, as fun as this has been, as you all know,” he looked around, pausing at Thor, “out-of-towners exempted, Friday night is poker night.” With a raised hand and serious expression he hushed the low cheers, whistling, and the general ruckus everyone responded with. “Quiet now, this is serious business. It is the long- maybe not so long- and noble tradition of poker night to crown a champion at the end of the night, the standing victor being our very own flyboy, Legolas over here,” he finished, pointing to Clint, who ducked his head, leaning forward onto his elbows as everyone renewed the cheering and clapping with vigor. “Four times in a row, ladies and gents!” Tony called over the noise. “So it is all of our responsibility,” he paused, and everyone quieted again, “to dethrone this guy tonight.” More laughter and clapping. “It’s only fair!” he stated as he sat down again, shrugging non-sympathetically to Clint.

“Well now I feel bad about it,” Clint responded, though he couldn’t help but grin. He was met with a chorus of ‘no’s and dismissive waves and a “we don’t want your pity” from Sam who reached over and clapped him on the shoulder nonetheless. 

With more joking and accusations of hogging the title and plenty of grief to go around- though not a single person wasn’t smiling- the chips for Texas Hold’em were brought out and the cards were shuffled some more. Hill volunteered to deal, and Thor- who didn’t know how to play- and Jane- who would be explaining it to him as the others played- were sitting it out. That left the other seven- Banner, Tony, Pepper, Clint, Natasha, Steve, and Sam- playing.

Chips were divided (they had agreed before the first game that nothing would be actually on the table, which would be a recipe for disaster, so no real bets were involved), cards were dealt, and the game began in earnest. 

It wasn’t until the game was under way- with Sam, who was never the best at the game, already out, and Banner, who had been hanging on by a thread for the past couple hands, following suit- that anything that could possibly construed as ‘cheating’ took place. No cards were hidden up sleeves, no chips added or stolen, and Clint wasn’t even using the reflections in the drink glasses to try and see what cards were in people’s hands. 

The only thing that either of them had that gave them an advantage was a partner. He and Natasha, who in the past on assignment had played cards they could not afford to lose, had worked out a system a long time ago, and it was effective. First, and foremost, they had the benefit of communication- how many fingers you hold your cards with, in which hand you hold them, whether it’s your spare hand, forearm, or your elbow that’s resting on the table (or your leg when the table is a little too low or far away), and more. Most people good at the game, or good at people, tend to pick up on movement like blinking or lifting a hand to touch your face or shoulder, so they had to be discrete, and they had to stay impassive and unreadable- which, wasn’t necessarily hard, given they did it for a living.

All of it was a means of communicating what they had to each other, and what they thought they could get. Why tell your hand to someone you’re supposed to be competing against? Because they went into it knowing they would help each other at first, working together to try and ensure each fared well, and then hopefully when themselves and two others were left in the final stretch of the game, it was every man for himself, or herself. There was give and take involved that helped them both, usually in the form of pushing bets high or low based on the cards and a bit of intuition when it came to reading the the others in the game, as well as a little manipulation (for example: when Clint folded after pausing to give Natasha a knowing look, which of course everyone else saw, and as they trusted Clint to be able to read her best, they assumed he knew something they didn’t, even when Natasha had crap cards and both he and her knew it).

Thus, their method only helped ensure they both stayed in to the end. When four people were left in the game (two of them hopefully Clint and Natasha) they stopped. Clint had won the last few games because he was just better at cards than the others, Natasha included. His less than reputable past with the circus had provided quite a bit of experience in more things than archery (including plenty of ways to cheat at cards that were way worse than just working with a partner- not that he needed them). So, all in all, he didn’t feel bad about it. It was most definitely not the most morally grey thing he’d ever done. Plus, if you’re not caught, then it’s not cheating, as someone he once knew used to say.

However, this time, Natasha wanted to win, so he would let her have it- or rather, he wouldn’t fight as hard to take it himself. His partner was plenty capable. 

After maybe two hours of playing, it was obviously nearing the very end of the game. Tony, who was always a little less than frugal and a little too willing when it came to betting, had just dropped out. In the lead, with a mountain of chips, was Natasha. Clint and Pepper, the only other two in the game by that point, were about tied with what together might have equaled Natasha’s cache. The cards were on the table, bets had been placed and followed, the final round of betting was under way, and Clint knew that Natasha was sitting on a full house. It looked about the right time to finish it.

The last opportunity to raise was to Clint. Then, Pepper could either fold or meet it, and Natasha would have to make the same choice. What Clint wanted, if he was sacrificing himself and if this ended the game with Natasha’s victory, was to go all in himself and have Pepper follow suit. Natasha definitely had the highest hand.

Clint was looking at two pairs: a jack in his hand, and a jack and pair of eights on the table, which wasn’t necessarily bad if you play it right, but it couldn’t beat a full house. He knew Natasha had an eight and a king in her hand, giving her three of a kind with eights, and a pair of kings, as there was also one on the table. That just left what Pepper had in her hand.

The suits turned up were too spread for any sort of flush- straight or royal- and it was impossible for her to have four of a kind between two cards in her hand, and the only pair on the table being the eights, Natasha having the third. What that meant was that Natasha, without a doubt, had the highest hand, so it was only a matter of getting Pepper to believe she had them both beat and follow him all in.

Clint took a steady breath, considering his options and making sure it was obvious. The seven others were gathered tightly around, almost holding their collective breath in anticipation. It was silent for the first time that night. Clint drummed the fingers of his hand not holding the cards on the table, frowning at Natasha. 

“What have you got, Nat?” His face still read as serious while she only responded with an innocent smile, white teeth flashing. “You’ve got one pair on the table, maybe you’re sitting on two pair. Just maybe. Cards on the table don’t fit right for anything more than that.” He glanced down at his own hand before grinning back at her. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Pepper straighten ever so slightly, more alert. Good, she thought she had her. “Or maybe you’ve got nothing.” 

“Or maybe, Clint, you’re playing the people now instead of the cards,” she said softly, “because you don’t have jack shit in your hand.” She smiled warmly, cocking her head to the side ever so slightly. “Awfully talkative now, aren’t you.” There were murmurs from their audience, a few ‘ooh’s at Natasha’s stab at Clint. Pepper however remained frozen, not giving anything else away. She was good, but he thought he had her. 

“I’ve got a little better than ‘jack shit’, Nat.”

“Oh? Prove it.”

He hesitated for maybe a millisecond- the final hook. “Way I see it. I’m either right or I’m wrong.” He smiled at her. “Might as well see. All in.” He pushed his stacks on chips forward as the their spectators inhaled sharply, very conscious of this being one of the final moves of the game, and waiting eagerly to see what Pepper would do in response.

All eyes were on her as she paused, glanced down at her down turned cards once more, and said, “What the hell, all in. I’ll follow.” There was more murmuring and commotion from the others, some of whom were literally holding their breaths now.

“And I’ll match,” Natasha said evenly, a smug smile on her face. 

A collective gasp, followed by a lot of incomprehensible noise as everyone started talking at once, arose when they all flipped their cards. Clint simply shook his head in his defeat, smiling ruefully as he rose and excused himself from the tight circle, headed for the kitchen. 

He pulled a beer from the refrigerator, closing the door only to be a little surprised by Maria Hill standing there next to him behind where the open door had blocked his view and allowed her to sneak up on him. Arms crossed, she didn’t look too pleased, but she also didn’t look mad either. Just like she had something to say.

“Want a beer?” he asked, reopening the door and stepping back so as to keep her in sight this time.

“Sure.” He selected one from the shelf. “I know what you and Natasha were doing.”

Ah. Of course she did. “What?”

“I couldn’t work out what they all meant, but you were signalling back and forth during the game. And then at the end there.” 

Yeah, the no-nonsense tone of her voice and the confidence in her stance said there would be no convincing her they weren’t. Honestly though, if anyone were to find them out, it would be her. She was very good at her job, and even though she had moved up past field work and into administration, she had gotten there for a reason.

“Hm, you sure?” It was worth a shot though.

“Yes, Barton. I’m sure.” She took a drink from the beer bottle Clint had helpfully pried the cap off of and handed over. 

He sighed, shaking his head. “Damn. When’d you pick up on it?”

“It took a while, you should be happy to know. And I don’t think I would have paid it much attention if I hadn’t recalled the Bellegrava file. You know, where it notes how the two of you learned to do that together?”

“Now that’s not fair. You knew our tactics because you read it in a file. And how did you just ‘recall’ that particular file? Not fair I tell you.”

“I remembered it because Bellegrava was a shit storm that I spent a month cleaning up. And you were playing poker-”

“Texas Hold’em,” Clint corrected.

“-so it wasn’t a stretch of the memory.” 

Clint paused, taking a drink. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

“Be disappointed in you both.”

“What, that’s it?”

“It’s not my job to tell you to play nice with others on your own time. That’s only office hours for me.” She rolled her eyes, shaking her head slightly. “I did debate siccing Steve on you.”

“No you should definitely not do that. Would never hear the end of it.”

“Mhhm, that’s the point. But like I said, I don’t care enough to make it my business that you two cheat your friends at cards.”

“Well usually we don’t do that- that, I mean, well that there at the end, yeah, that was cheating,” Clint admitted. “But- well, okay, I do feel kinda bad about that,” he said, clasping the back of his neck and looking down before recollecting himself. “But usually we stop all of that when there’s four people left. Every man for themselves. I swear.” 

“Uh-huh. Sure.” She shifted away from the counter and went to re-join the group, leaving Clint grimacing, standing awkwardly by the still open refrigerator that had begun to beep at him for the door being left open for so long.

“Aww, shut up,” he mumbled to the refrigerator, closing the door and following Hill back to the group.

He was met with jeers, mockery, and some sympathetic shrugs for ‘being dethroned’, but he rolled with the punches, smile at the jokes, and for the most part nursed his beer quietly as the night wound down and the excitement settled. As the cards and poker chips were cleared away, they all settled back into easy conversation, sharing stories and interesting or funny tidbits about their lives or things they’d seen. Clint told a few stories himself about past jobs long enough done and settled and irrelevant to today that it really didn’t matter. It might have been the most he’d ever spoken about himself to these people- wouldn’t Hernandez be so proud of him?

But honestly, he didn’t do it because his shrink had scolded him. Everyone was there, having fun, enjoying themselves and each other’s company, and it was easy. Yeah, it was easy. 

But still, he was just talking about places he’d been, odd things he’d done, funny things he’d seen- none of that was hard. And none of it was really about himself. He wasn’t sharing the more difficult to digest parts that made up himself and his past that lurked beneath the surface. That was all for another day. Maybe another millennium.

Still, baby steps, right?

Anyway, as the night dragged on and what started as Friday night became the first hour of Saturday morning, some of their party began to excuse themselves. Hill was the first to go, offering ‘goodbye’s and ‘thanks for the invite’s and ‘it was fun’ to everyone. Banner was next, politely disengaging himself and wishing them all goodnight before taking the elevator to his floor. Pepper, after Banner left, wasn’t long for staying, saying that she had an early brunch meeting tomorrow. Tony complained, but she shut him up saying that she, unlike him, actually had responsibilities to the company his name was on. That earned some chuckles and a wry face from Tony. Shortly after, Thor, Jane, and Darcy- Darcy being a little more than tipsy despite not having drank all that much- excused themselves in similar fashion, Thor leading them up to his floor where the three planned to stay for the night.

Sam, who’d had a little too much to drink to want to drive home, thankfully accepted Steve’s offer of the guest bedroom on his floor- he did have an entire floor after all, he’d said, so there was more than enough room, and absolutely no hassle. That left Steve, Sam, Tony, Clint, and Natasha lounging out on the couches and oversized armchairs, now with plenty of room to spread out after everyone else’s departure. 

Time continued to drag on, and Clint began to feel the weight of exhaustion settle over him. The once energetic discussions had lowered in volume and interest from everyone involved into quiet conversation. Clint stretched out, lounging across his spacious armchair, his knees over the armrest and head lolled back comfortably.

Tony sighed, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Well, I guess we should call it a night.”

Steve nodded in agreement, blinking. “I suppose you guys are heading out then,” he directed at Natasha, who was sitting on the couch across from him looking a great deal more alert than Clint, who had let his eyes drift shut, though he wasn’t near sleep yet. 

Clint heard Natasha groan in dislike of that idea. She was tired, and didn’t relish the idea of driving back through the city to either her or Clint’s place, neither of which were close, in order to crash for the night.

“Nope,” Clint declared. “Too much effort. Too tired.”

“Agreed,” she sighed.

“Oh.” While not looking, Clint could hear the slightest surprise in Tony’s voice. But then, they usually didn’t stay at the tower, even though the had their own floors. “I guess everyone- well, except Hill- is staying tonight. Not sure if that’s ever happened.”

“Well, there’s a first for everything,” Clint grumbled as he mustered the willpower and forced himself up from the way too comfortable, way too welcoming chair. “I’m headed up.”

“Good idea,” Natasha added.

“Yeah. Come on Sam, let’s call that a night.” Steve rose to his feet and helped pull Sam to his with a proffered hand. 

The five of them made their way over to the elevator, leaving the stray glasses and bottles and rearranged furniture to be a problem for the morning. As they shuffled off at their stops, Clint found himself and Natasha the last two in the elevator. Pushing himself off of the wall where he had been leaning, he sidled forward to Natasha after the door shut behind Steve and Sam. 

“Hey,” he murmured into her hair as he rested his arms around her sides loosely, pulling her close to him.

“Hey,” she said back, resting her forehead against his collar. 

“M’glad we came tonight,” he confessed, voice low and heavy with exhaustion.

“Me too,” she whispered back into his shoulder, just loud enough for him to hear. 

As the elevator rose steadily to Natasha’s floor, which was just below his own, they swayed together ever so slightly. 

“Cheated pretty bad though,” he said.

“Yeah.” She drew out the syllable, thinking it over once more. “A little bit.”

“Maybe need to not do that again.”

“I’m inclined to think the same thing,” she sighed, snuggling closer with her exhale of breath, her arms wrapping around his midsection. 

They remained silent for the rest of the way, until the elevator opened at her floor. Clint pressed a kiss to the top of her head, mumbling “G’night Nat,” before pulling a half-step away. She let go of him with another heavy sigh, stepping backwards toward the open door.

She let her head fall to one side, giving him a pouty look. “You could come with me.” She offered him what might have been a sly smile if she weren't as tired. She might have had a drink or two as well.

He exhaled heavily, rubbing his eyes hard enough for him to see white spots dancing behind his eyelids, shaking his head as he did so. “Mnn, can’t. You know that. Too risky. Everyone up in the morning, whatever cameras Stark’s got on the floors, Jarvis- hell, probably shouldn't ‘ve even done that,” he motioned with a wave to the interior of the elevator, referring to themselves just moments ago. 

After all, this whole thing they had going, it wasn’t exactly something that could become common knowledge. Workplace romances were a big no-no at SHIELD, and they worked too closely together- Strike Team Delta and all. And then they both were a part of the Avengers, too. Yeah, no doubt what they were doing could totally screw up their working relationship, which was something they both valued highly, if the wrong people- or really if anyone at all- found out.

“Yeah, I know,” she said, stepping backwards out of the door to still face him. “Goodnight, Clint.”

“Goodnight Nat.” The doors closed as she spun slowly on her heel and walked away.

“Hey, Jarvis?” Clint asked, allowing his head to fall back against the wall again as he stared at the ceiling.

“Yes, Agent Barton?” came the robotic yet pleasantly humanoid voice from nowhere in particular.

“Elevator got cameras?”

“Yes, Agent Barton. However an odd glitch in the system removed the past five minutes minutes from record, unfortunately.”

Clint smiled, laughing to himself. Damn, Tony Stark really did design this thing. “Thanks bud.”

As the door clicked open, Jarvis replied, saying “I have no idea what for, though, you’re welcome.”

Clint stepped off, and without turning on any lights as he went, made a beeline for the bedroom. After taking the second to kick off his shoes and put his hearing aids on the bedside table, Clint collapsed onto the king-sized, very soft, very comfortable bed, and drifted off to sleep.


	4. nazis were stealing saturday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I remember what the plot was supposed to be! Yay!

Clint drifted back to the land of the living in a pleasant, meandering, gradual spiral of returning consciousness. Everything was calm, dim, quiet- no nagging sense of insecurity or obligation to wake up pulling at the back of his mind. He had nothing to do, nowhere to be- why wake up? Eventually though, he rose to a level of semi-awareness in which he had to make a choice between rolling over and trying to return to the lovely haze of sleep or fully returning to his senses. Unfortunately, he couldn’t quite manage the former, try as he may to have burrowed further into the warm depths of the mattress and mess of blankets and coverings he had managed to nest himself into during the night. 

Still, he wasn’t willing to give up the comfort of his bed just yet.

He took a deep breath, humming contentedly into the pillow with a long exhale as he rolled from his side to his stomach, stretching his arms out underneath the pillows by his head. There was nothing more delightful than stretching for the first time in the morning. One of those small things you don’t really think about, but so very nice.

It might have been a few more minutes that passed, or it could have been half an hour; Clint didn’t make an effort to keep track as he drifted here and there in a mostly awake state. Eventually though, he made himself open his eyes, resigning himself to the fact that he wouldn’t be getting back to sleep. Not really surprising, but disappointing nonetheless.

Clint burrowed face first into the pillow, muttering, “Jarvis, what time’s it?”

The lack of response he received was puzzling at first, but then he remembers- oh wait, right. He was almost deaf. That’s cool. He mustered up a great deal of effort, turning to his side, seeing a display projected on the wall across from him with a digital clock, which hadn’t been there before. 

Hmm. 9:34 am. For a weekend, it was kind of early for him. He would usually turn over and proceed with ignoring the world for at least a half an hour longer, all factors permitting. However, he recalled that this was not his apartment in Bed-Stuy. And while usually if he wasn’t waking up in Bed-Stuy he was either waking up in some crappy hotel (if he was lucky) on assignment or in med-bay, he recalled that he was at the tower. Sure, it was his level, but everyone else was probably up or getting up, so he didn’t really feel right just staying put.

With a groan, he forced himself up to a sitting position, and pushing the sheets off of him and out of the way (he must have actually gotten beneath them some time in the night, as he thought he had just passed out on top of them), he swung his legs off of the mattress. Slowly, he stood, testing his legs underneath him before making for the bathroom. A quick shower later, he was about as awake as he could hope to be, had changed into a comfortable pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt from the small cache of clothing and necessities he had stowed away in the room in case he need them, and was on his way to hunt down some coffee.

The elevator door opened, confronting him with a post morning jog Steve looking annoyingly chipper and wide awake- the exact opposite of how he felt. Why he decided to put himself through an early morning workout routine, Clint would never know. Sure, cardio is important, but there’s this thing called ‘sleep’ too. 

Steve greeting him with a nod, saying “Good morning,” but seeing Clint had either forgotten or simply hadn’t cared to retrieve his hearing aids, simply shrugged off the lack of reciprocation. He did however tap Clint on the shoulder and motion to the button panel when he had the man’s attention, asking “Which floor?” slowly and intentionally forming the words so Clint would have a hope of reading his lips.

A grunt of “coffee”, was his only response before he returned his head back to where he was resting his temple against the wall of the elevator. Steve grinned, shaking his head as he interpreted the response as meaning the communal floor, where most everyone was trickling into the kitchen for breakfast. 

The elevator first dropped Steve off at his own floor so he could shower and change before it altered its course and rose to the communal floor. The door opening once more, this time Clint shuffled out and began a direct route to the coffee maker, which thankfully someone had already put to good use and left a half pot of the lifesaving liquid remaining. Snatching a mug from the open cabinet (he had enough sense to know drinking it right from the pot was rude when when it wasn’t your pot), he poured until it was nearly brimming over and slid into a high seat at the island counter in the middle of the spacious kitchen. 

He didn’t waste any time or energy with adding cream or sugar- it would just ruin it anyway. Nope, black coffee was the only way to go. And wow, leave it to Stark to buy what was probably ridiculously expensive imported coffee grown in the garden of Eden, hand picked by the Queen of Sheba, and prepared by the mermaid lady on the Starbucks logo. Hell, as long as it said coffee on the label and had caffeine in it Clint wouldn’t complain, but not Stark. However, it’s not like it was his money, so, he wasn’t complaining about this either. It was damn good coffee.

It wasn’t until he was two mugs in that Clint was alert enough to care about paying his surroundings any attention. Tony’s presence was most obvious, bustling about making what smelled more than looked like pancakes- he was struggling a little, but Clint had to give the guy credit for trying- over by the stove as he was. He seemed to happy and awake that morning to be the Tony Stark he knew, but Clint would take it because based on the size of the mess and the stacks of pancakes piling up, he was apparently making breakfast for all of them. (And with super people, that was no easy task.) Banner was sitting at the other end of the counter, reading the Wall Street Journal and sipping his coffee. At the long table which seated all of them plus guests behind Clint, Sam was hunched over in his seat, quietly nursing his coffee and probably a slight hangover as well. Clint, thankfully, had the self restraint the night before to ensure he did not face the same unfortunate side effect. Thor was nowhere to be seen, though neither were Jane and Darcy, and he knew where Steve was. Finally, there was Natasha, leaning back against the refrigerator door across the room from where he was seated, sending him a questioning sort of look over her mug as she sipped.

He just blinked at her, not sure if she had said something or not, but figuring that she would repeat herself if she had or it was important. She simply reached up and tapped her ear, raising an eyebrow. Oh. Natasha, having noticed that he wasn’t wearing his aides, was wondering why. She knew that he wasn’t totally comfortable without them around other people, but mostly, that was just a self preservation thing- a need to not be deprived of that invaluable sense when there might be trouble, and there was a chance for that whenever another human being was in the room. To be completely honest, he had sort of forgotten them, so it wasn’t exactly his first choice to leave them in his room, but when he had realized it in the elevator, he didn’t exactly care enough to go back and get them either. So, he just shrugged in response to her half-way amused, half-way perplexed look, and returned to his coffee.

Motion in the corner of his peripheral caught Clint’s attention. Turning his head toward the elevator, in came Steve- hair still damp from showering off- Thor, Jane, and Darcy- who was swimming in a hooded sweatshirt way too big for her, hiding away from the too-bright lights beneath the hood, and moving with a gait that, like the rest of it, didn’t take a very keen eye to figure she had an unpleasant hangover. Not surprising. 

Darcy shuffled over to the table and sat down across from Sam who was in a similar condition. Jane, the kind soul she was, brought her a mug of coffee, setting it down on the table in front of her before she fetched a mug for herself. Steve went over to Tony and, though his back was to Clint so he couldn’t tell for sure, seemed to be asking if there was anything he could help with, based on Clint’s knowledge of Steve’s character and how Tony nodded and motioned at the stack of pancakes he had been been building steadily. As Thor and Jane took a seat beside Banner at the counter and struck up a conversation that Clint could make out only if he tried really hard (which he didn’t care to do), Steve grabbed more plates from the cabinet and began transferring pancakes onto more plates and setting them in the middle of the kitchen island.

Well, the whole gang was there. Except for Pepper that is, but as she said last night, she had important things to do.

Tony finally turned away from the oven and made a sprawling gesture to the food laid out on the table, which must have been forty pancakes with various mix-ins and a large jug of syrup and tub of butter, saying something along the lines of ‘breakfast is served’, but then he was turning to face Steve so Clint couldn’t see what he was saying, and multiple people were talking and he couldn’t see or hear all of it at once, so he sort of gave up and leaned forward onto the table, resting his head on his folded arms and closing his eyes so if anyone wanted to talk to him they would have to get his attention themselves. Coffee or no, it just wasn’t worth the effort of trying to keep up with the conversation. Instead, he let the muddled and murmuring sounds of people talking and the ambient noise of breakfast ensuing settle around him. He was fine with that. And he wasn’t very hungry either. He was never much of a heavy breakfast kind of person, though coffee was a necessity.

Natasha snagged two blueberry pancakes for herself and smeared each with a pat of butter. She leaned against the counter eating along with Steve and Tony- Clint, Thor, Jane, and Banner having taken the four available seats. They could have moved over to the table, but they were all immersed in idle conversation and didn’t want to bother Sam and Darcy. 

“No, uh-uh, I get the last raspberry one. You had two already so I get this one,” Bruce scolded Tony as he reached for the last raspberry pancake in question. 

Tony withdrew and held his hands up in surrender. “Alright, fine. You just had to ask nicely,” he responded. “Blame these two, not me,” he said, motioning to Steve and Thor, who were each plowing through their own respective tall stacks of pancakes. 

Steve shot him a look. “Blame Nazi Germany.” He managed to keep a straight face and continued eating while everyone else chuckled at his exaggerated but nonetheless technically truthful words. 

“Oh? And what’s your excuse?” Tony asked, turning to Thor, who didn’t look impressed.

“You should attend an evening feast in Asgard. There are some who would eat two times as much as these and still participate in the games of war afterwards,” he said.

“But, you just motioned to all of them,” Bruce stated, frowning as imagery of such a person came to the forefront of his mind, and he wasn’t the only one.

“I simply cannot believe that possible,” Tony said, shaking his head and taking a sip of coffee.

“I do not jest,” Thor continued. “Partaking in the great feasts is not something we of Asgard make light of.”

“Alright, whatever you say big guy,” Tony conceded, and whatever disbelief was still obvious by his tone, Thor seed to either not notice or he simply let the matter go. 

“But seriously, all of you maybe save some for everyone else,” Jane said, still working her way through her first and sipping from a glass of orange juice. “They might want some later,” she added, motioning over her shoulder to Sam and Darcy, who hadn’t moved.

“It’s their loss,” Steve said with a shrug.

“Oh, and America’s golden boy reveals just how merciless he truly is,” Tony said dramatically, stumbling back a step and gasping. “Have compassion, won’t you? Just because you physically can’t get hangovers or the fun part before them doesn’t mean you can’t be sympathetic.”

“No, but you can emphasize with them, can’t you Tony,” he said with a grin, eliciting another faux hurt expression from Tony and a laugh or smile from the others.

“Play nice,” Natasha instructed, her lips curling into a smile which she hid in her mug.

“Huh, but speaking of partaking in feasts, does he not appreciate the fact that I labored over these for hours? Made them with my own two hands?” Tony asked Natasha, motioning to Clint, who had stirred, and standing, he moved over to the nearest armchair and turned his back to the noise, which was beginning to bother him a little bit..

“Sure, labored for all of thirty minutes,” Bruce shot back quietly but with a hint of sarcasm there. 

“Ouch. It’s the quiet ones you have to look out for,” Steve said to Tony.

“He’s not really a breakfast person,” Natasha answered on her partner’s behalf. “Or a morning person.”

“Really,” Thor added, nonplussed. “Of this I had never noticed.”

“Is that sarcasm? Coming from you? I would have never guessed it,” Tony voiced, surprise actually evident on his face.

“Hm, I’m pretty sure he survives off coffee and Oreos,” Steve explained. “Don’t know how, but he does.”

Tony snorted into his mug. “True.”

Jane looked perplexed, glancing back at Clint, whose only movement was the steady rising and falling of his shoulders as he breathed. “Did he manage to fall asleep that quickly?”

“Wouldn’t be surprised,” Bruce answered. “He seems to have an unnatural ability to fall asleep anywhere when he wants to. I found him in a hammock he had strung between the rafters in the corner of the gym once, midday, fast asleep.” 

“No shit,” Tony muttered. “Really?” The ceiling of the gym in the tower was easily three stories high to allow for practice with aerial maneuvers. They had sometimes found Clint perched up in the rafters, not that they could figure out how he did it- the obvious answer was a grappling arrow, but he didn’t have his bow or quiver with him.

“Really. Hammock’s still there last time I saw.”

“Huh. I hadn’t noticed,” Steve said. “Back to the question though- he might be asleep, I can’t really tell, but I don’t want to bother him if he is.”

“He’s not asleep,” Natasha added.

“Oh? And you know this because?” Arms crossed, Tony quirked an eyebrow at her.

“Breathing pattern,” she stated simply, taking a drink of coffee.

“Aww, you know how he sleeps? That’s so cute,” Jane mocked, but she was also partly sincere. 

This earned a snicker of laughter from the others, though Natasha deadpanned, asking, “Did you just refer to me as ‘cute’?”

The laughter stopped, and Jane rushed to correct herself. “No, definitely not. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Good.” Natasha settled back with her coffee. Her exterior revealed nothing but a calm composure, despite the anger she vented inwardly, mostly with herself. Dangerous territory, she reminded herself. Sure, Jane hadn’t implied anything, and Natasha could easily attribute that piece of intimate knowledge to so many different occasions, having worked with her partner for so long, but still… perhaps she was a little paranoid regarding anyone finding out about their relationship. Maybe just a little.

At least everyone seemed to move on without overthinking it further.

“Um, but if he isn’t asleep, that raises the question- isn’t this terribly awkward talking about him right in front of him like we have been?” Jane was fairly concerned with the whole situation, and it showed- she had a terrible poker face.

“Nah. He can’t hear us,” Tony answered.

“What?” She just looked more confused.

“Not wearing his aids,” Steve added by way of explanation. 

“His what now?” Everyone around the kitchen island stilled, the realization dawning on them.

“You don’t know?” Steve asked after a brief pause of silence from the room.

“How do you not know?” Tony asked, jumping right on the end of Steve’s remark, genuine, though he might have come off as a little course.

“Alright calm down and maybe somebody explain rather than everybody freaking out,” Bruce said levelly. “It’s not like it’s her fault.”

“That is true. Jane is often occupied elsewhere and rarely has the opportunity to visit, and it is not as if the topic is widely discussed when she is here,” Thor added.

Jane cut in before anyone else could add to the growing train of questions she had. “Stop, just everyone stop, and somebody tell me what the big thing I somehow don’t already know is,” she said, voice stern with frustration.

There was another awkward pause as everyone glanced around, unsure as to who should address the matter. Everyone very quickly settled on Natasha, looking at her and waiting expectantly.

She sighed, shaking her head. “If you haven’t already guess by what they’ve so unhelpfully been saying, Clint is severely hearing impaired. About 80% lost. He’s fluent in ASL and can read lips just fine if you face him and speak normally. He has hearing aides that restore almost all of his hearing but they aren’t perfect. He has issues pulling specific sounds out of a lot of ambient noise. And he doesn’t hear us because he’s currently not wearing them, he probably doesn’t care enough to strain hard enough to try, and none of us have been speaking very loudly for the sake of those with hangovers in the room.”

The eyes in the room shifted from Natasha to Jane, watching her reaction as she took in this new information. She blinked a few times, processing, before she composed herself again. “Oh.” She pondered something for a moment. “Is it genetic? Or something happened?” Eyes back to Natasha.

“An injury, a long time ago.” Natasha didn’t say anything more, even as the others waited to see if she would. She was only saying as much as Clint himself had told them at some point or another. Anything more, they would have to ask him if they were that curious, because they weren’t hers to tell.

“Doesn’t that interfere with his- ah- job? It seems like it could be a pretty fatal deficiency.”

Steve answered that one. “The first time I worked with him, I didn’t even know. None of us did- not that we really had time to sit down and talk about that kind of thing. But anyway, since then, as far as I’m aware, it’s never proven to be too dangerous for him, or any of the team.”

“It’s a risk he’s well aware of, and he has his ways of operating in case his aids fail in the field,” Natasha stated simply. “He’s had quite a while to adapt. I wouldn’t doubt him for a second.”

“I see.” Jane nodded, the scientist in her taking note of all of these new variables she had never known existed.

“Yep, but for what our resident Robin Hood lacks in audioception, he manages to make up for in other departments,” Tony remarked, trying and partway succeeding in lightening the atmosphere. 

Even though Clint was curled up with his back to them a good ten meters away- without a doubt too far away in too big of a room for him to hear any of what was being said- Steve had begun to feel awkward talking about all of this with him right there. It just didn’t seem decent. He set down the now empty mug he had been toying with in his hands as he leaned on the counter top on his elbows, his plate momentarily forgotten in front of him. “I agree. But now that everyone is on the same page, maybe we should move on.”

Murmurs of agreement went around the kitchen, and as they finished breakfast, the conversation shifted idle talk of this and that; Tony was describing some updates he was planning for Jarvis’s guidance system in his suits, which led into Bruce discussing the potential merits of satellite networks in space, to which Jane had plenty to add regarding astrophysics, Steve asking rather astute questions the whole time, however they all managed to keep the conversation on a rather mundane level so it didn’t go too far over anyone’s head. At some point, Sam had re-entered the group, moving into the seat Clint had left unoccupied. He looked better than he had before, even if he still squinted at the light.

Still though, Natasha wasn’t very invested in the conversation- her mind wandered to her partner. Could they really do this? They both knew that rationally it was a bad idea going into this, relationship, she supposed it was, but they rolled with it anyway because ‘rationality’ wasn’t always such a driving factor when it came to gut feelings of right and wrong. But what would happen six months from now? Two years from now? It was impossible to plan two weeks ahead for people in their line of work, much less that far. The question wasn’t if she would feel any differently about the man- she cared about him more than she ever had for anyone. No, it was if the collision of their professional and private lives would allow them to make it that far. 

People like them couldn’t afford many secrets. She knew more than anyone that secrets don’t stay buried unless the body that knew them is buried along with them. Eventually, this would all explode in their faces. It was just a matter of when. And Natasha didn’t like surprises. It was the unpredictable element of it all that threw her off the most- but that was the nature of emotional decision making, wasn’t it. It was turbulent, spontaneous, and sometimes like a hole you fall into head first- the falling can be wonderful, but somewhere in the back of your mind, the part of you still abiding by the rules of physics tells you that you’ll hit the floor eventually.

The question was whether stopping while you’re ahead might prevent that nasty collision. Maybe-

“Earth to Agent Romanoff,” Tony called out, pulling her back to the present. “Do you copy?”

“What?” Her tone was pleasant, though she gave him a disapproving look. 

“We were asking you if you knew how your BFF keeps getting into the rafters in the gym without any equipment. He doesn’t leave a rope, he doesn’t bring anything, but he somehow managed to get up there with a hammock at some point, and he keeps going back to it,” Tony said, a hint of exasperation there in word and body language.

Natasha’s mouth curved into a slight, delicate smile- the sort of sly, knowing smirk she gave simply to annoy him. It was very effective. However, Tony wasn’t the only one who wanted to know.

“You know, don’t you,” Steve stated, not even a question.

“Of course she does,” Sam muttered, taking a gulp of freshly brewed coffee. “Those two are thick as thieves.”

“Classic. Partners in crime, and all the other shady stuff Fury has you doing,” Tony said with a grin, apparently finding something about that amusing. “So, how does he do it?”

“He can actually fly- but don’t tell anyone. It’s a secret,” Natasha said, all indications that she was earnest despite how blatant the lie was.

“Barton falls off of too many buildings to have the ability to fly,” Thor rebuked.

“Ha, that’s true,” Tony added. “But fine, don’t share. I’ll figure it out myself.”

“It’s not that complicated,” Natasha said with an eye roll. “How does he ever get around in the tower when he doesn’t use the hallways and doors like any sane individual?”

A moment of silent consideration passed, everyone searching for an answer, though Natasha didn’t wait very long. She wasn’t by nature a patient person. “He uses the air vents. They’re industrial sized- plenty of room. Multiple of them open up at the ceiling of the gym, so he just opens one up and lowers himself onto the support beams.”

Everyone responded with “Oh”s and nods of acknowledgement as they considered the rather plausible explanation. “I still don’t understand the appeal of crawling around in the air ducts. Unless the goal is sneaking up on people, or maybe just avoiding ev-”

Tony was cut off abruptly by the flashing blue lights and the drone of the alarm over the speakers hidden all around them, a loud, baritone sound that cycled in volume with the flash of the lights. Everyone in the room jumped in response, Clint jerking upright and moving to join the rest of them in the kitchen- the lights were a good indicator, but even without them it was plenty loud and distinct enough for him to hear.

“Jarvis, cut that out,” Tony hollered over the sound, which died out in response, the lights ceasing as well. 

It all would have been quite- alarming- if it hadn’t been so familiar. The call to assemble the Avengers to fight some sort of undoubtedly terrible, humanity threatening monstrosity. Or maybe they would be lucky this time and instead of something escaping from a rift between dimensions, it would just be Hydra. 

Huh, Clint thought it was interesting that he considered himself lucky when he had to fight a bunch of modern day Nazis that didn’t have the decency to let him have his Saturday off. 

Natasha pulled her SHIELD contact interface from a pocket inside her jacket, glancing at it. “We’re getting the call as well,” she said, looking at her partner, who caught to words.

“Aww, Saturday, no.” There he had it. Nazis were stealing Saturday.

“Jarvis, what’s the situation?” Steve asked, going scarily quickly into Captain America mode, even if the stars and stripe were nowhere to be seen. His posture straightened, alert, ready for action. Clint was far less eager, and by this point, he was really wishing he had his aids.

“Agent Hill ordered the emergency call and has placed an incoming call from SHIELD headquarters. Shall I patch her through?”

“Yes,” Tony instructed, and not a second later a blueish screen was projected in thin air before them. Maria Hill was sitting behind her desk, stacks of files on either side, various papers askew in front of her, looking sharp in her uniform and a serious expression on her face, whatever friendliness and warmth she had there the night before gone and replaced by a sense of urgency. 

“That was faster than expected,” she remarked, retrieving a file from one corner of her desk and laying it open before her. Clint found himself once again surprised by Jarvis’s gift of foresight when the words he read off her lips ran by at the bottom of the projection.

“We never really left,” Tony responded by way of explanation. Oh, and his words were there too. How does one properly thank a- whatever Jarvis is?

“What’s the issues we’re looking at?” Steve asked, diving to the heart of the problem.

“An update on the situation we last addressed, which we’re now consolidating under the file Operation Breakwater. AIM hasn’t been as subtle as we first believed they would. According to reports, they’ve moving in on a government research facility in Northern Pennsylvania. SHIELD operatives in the more immediate area have been scrambled to engage, but it should take you no more than 30 minutes to arrive on scene. I’m sending you the coordinates now. By time you arrive, it will likely be underway and SHIELD fast response teams should be in place already-” she glanced away from the screen, seeming to be listening to someone on her end out of their line of sight. “But we’re receiving reports even now that this is no small incursion. We aren’t taking any chances.”

“Copy that, we’re on our way,” Steve responded, and Hill nodded before cutting the connection, and the screen faded away. “Everyone, suit up. We leave ASAP.”

“Jarvis, log the coordinates in the Quinjet,” Tony ordered. “Prep it for departure.”

There was a sudden burst of activity, everyone getting up, chairs pushed around hurriedly and the mess from breakfast forgotten. Thor, after wishing a quick farewell to Jane along with some reassurances went for the stairs up to the landing platform, his armor and weapon only needing to be summoned up conveniently, while everyone else rushed for the armory. Banner, with a sigh, followed after him directly to the Quinjet; it wasn’t like he needed anything from the armory like the others. The rest however, all quite practiced by now, were changing, grabbing weaponry, and nearly ready to go within minutes.

The first thing he did was pull the spare pair of aids (which had the added bonus of a built in comm, unlike his others which he left in his room) from their place in a shallow drawer at the foot of his locker in the armory, in which his Avengers uniform and weaponry resided. Clint threw on his tactical gear in a hurry, this set different from his SHIELD apparel by the Avengers emblem and by design. Rather than the plain black unmarked SHIELD tac gear or his uniform, Stark had done some redesigning. While the long sleeves in the same thick material as the rest of it had concerned him at first, needing his arms and shoulders to be unrestricted in order for him to be most efficient in using his weapon of choice, Stark had obviously thought this through. It also offered more protection in general, especially with the redesigning and upgrading or the armoring around his torso, and it carried over some color, which was nice, though it wasn’t quite purple enough for his liking.

He laced his boots, strapped on a pre-loaded quiver, secured an extra to his side, and grabbed his arm guard and finger tabs, however his hand hesitated over the back wall of his locker where three different bows were resting on their respective hooks. One of them was identical to the other, both recurve and equal in draw strength and range, however on was simply collapsible. He didn’t need that one, but there was still a choice to be made.

“Hey Cap,” he called across the room without looking from the weapons. “You gonna want me on the ground or up high?”

“Don’t know yet. Depends on what we see,” came the clipped response.

Well, guess he was taking both. He grabbed the recurve and the compound bow from the wall and kicked the reinforced steel plate door shut behind him, it locking automatically with an audible click. If he was going to get up close and personal with AIM’s lackeys, the recurve would be best- lighter, less bulky, more manageable. However, if Steve wanted him at a distance, the compound bow, with it’s heavier pull, had better distance and strength behind the shot. When Steve made that call, he would just leave whichever he didn’t need in the Quinjet.

Ready, Clint made for the elevator, finding himself, Steve, and Natasha on their way up, Tony having gone to the landing platform already (he didn’t take as long to get ready), and Thor and Banner already there. Steve had planted himself in the front of the elevator, facing the door, while Clint and Natasha stood behind him against the wall.

Clint glanced over at her, and their eyes met. He gave a slow, shallow nod, which she answered with a weak smile. They didn’t need sign language to communicate without words. The look he gave her clearly conveyed ‘be careful’, because they may not get another brief moment to themselves to say as much. All too quickly, however, the elevator came to a stop and the doors clicked open. 

Jogging out on the landing platform toward the Quinjet, the brisk wind stole his breath away, the cold biting at every bit of exposed skin. The sky was overcast, little pockets in the dark masses allowing some sunlight to filter through. A storm was brewing. If it was a bad omen or something, Clint would be having none of it. They continued up the ramp and entered the bay door of the Quinjet, which had already been deployed. Inside the cabin of the craft, benches lined the walls on either side, harnesses one can buckle themself into in case of emergency attached to the wall and bench below, however the middle of the bay was open to allow for easier transport of whatever they may need, though the space was still fairly narrow. Before reaching the front seats and various control panels of the pilot’s cabin, however, the bay area narrowed further. Two sliding metal panels formed the doors to two closet-like enclosed spaces on either side. Inside of those were various emergency supplies, including parachutes, first aid, water and MREs, tools for making necessary repairs, and a small number of weapons and ammunition (including yet another case of arrows), and a spare radio intercom, satellite phones, and extra comms for the team. 

Banner and Thor were already seated in the back and Tony- complete with suit of armor though sans helmet, which he was holding- was standing beside them. “Took your sweet time ladies, and Natasha.” He nodded politely to her. 

Steve, however, was not in the mood for humor. “Everyone take your seats. Barton, pilot this thing-”

“You got it.” 

“We’re all on channel 5,” Steve finished, taking a seat.

Clint passed by them to the front of the Quinjet and hooked his two bows into place with some clips on the cabin wall intended for that purpose, sparing a second to make sure they were secure. He then threw himself into the pilot’s seat, putting on the radio headset, and set about making the necessary preparations for takeoff. He noticed Natasha sit besides him at the co-pilot’s position. The coordinates were already logged, courtesy of Jarvis, so Clint just locked them in.

When he had the green light from the engine and all systems were a go, he informed the team over the comms, speaking while the engines began to hum and the Quinjet lifted into the air and took off over the city. “This is your pilot speaking. Everyone please keep your arms, legs, heads inside the vehicle at all times. Remain in your seats if at all possible, unless of course in the case of complete engine failure which results in the the craft falling from the sky. Speaking of emergencies, there are two emergency exits you should be aware of- one at the back of the Quinjet and one on the right side of the pilot’s cabin, though unless you’re Captain America a parachute comes highly recommended in the circumstance that you must use either of them. Thanks so much for your cooperation and please enjoy your flight on, Avengers United Airline.”

While his spiel earned a few smiles, the atmosphere in the craft was tense and heavy, and everything quickly fell silent except for the hum of the engines. When the coordinates were preset like they were, piloting didn’t actually involve doing much of anything except monitoring that the systems all remained online and in order, and being ready to take the helm manually in the came of emergency. So, Clint just sat there, waiting, feeling the tension build up inside of him as they neared their destination.

It was one thing to expect trouble, but it was another to know for a fact that they were about to jump right into the middle of it. It was never a nice feeling. But also, it just wasn’t what he did. He didn’t like working on incursion teams. He didn’t like working with fast response units. He and Natasha- they weren’t soldiers. They weren’t trained to dive into conflict head on. Hell, if they did their jobs right, they would be in and out on assignments without even getting into any conflicts. Sure, he could fight and strategize, but not like Steve was trained to do. Clint learned and trained to fight in order to stay alive. His strategizing involved ways to stay on the outskirts, to fly under the radar, and to cover his back. There were other things, but it was mostly that realization right there that often made Clint think about how in hell he even ended up on this team in the first place. He hadn’t chosen New York- he found himself right in the middle of it, and he chose to follow Natasha. Now, he was choosing to follow his teammates. 

Here he was, doing it again. Except this time, it was all his choice, and it was a choice he kept on making for some reason, and a choice that would probably get him killed one day. They were about to wade into something with almost no information whatsoever, make a plan up as they go, and their only goals were to protect innocent lives and stop AIM, as if it could get any less specific. 

Time ticked by, and they were twelve minutes out. He noticed Natasha looking at him, though focused on the multitude of dials, knobs, switches, and keys on the command console, carefully watching their altitude, velocity, angle of incline, and course direction carefully. He didn’t have anything to say. After a few minutes passed though, he saw her mute her comm and she reached over and nudged his shoulder, getting him attention. He followed suit, pulling his radio headset off and looking over at her. 

“You okay?” It was a simple question, and she didn’t even have her usual I-am-very-concerned-about-Clint-Barton face on, but he still wasn’t sure how to answer.

“Yeah,” he nodded, glancing back toward the controls before returning to her face. “I just hate this part.”

She exhaled. “I know.” A pause. “We’ll be fine.”

“I certainly hope so,” he responded, a small smile spreading across his face.

“No, don’t do that,” she ordered, shaking her head.

“What? What? What did I do?” he laughed, the smile going to his eyes.

“That smirk- it’s your ‘I might be about to do something reckless but, oh well’ face, so stop that right now. Keep your wits about you, and be careful, because I will kick your ass if you do anything stupid,” she promised, eyes narrowed at him, brows pulled together and arms crossed.

“Okay, okay,” he conceded. “Got it.”

He pulled his headset back up. Glancing at the navigation screen, he reached above him and flipped the necessary switches, activation the cloaking technology that would allow them to fly in unnoticed. “Heads up everybody. ETA nine minutes. Landscape providing, when we get there, I’m gonna set her down a little ways away so we can work out exactly what we’re doing.”

“Copy,” came Steve’s voice, but besides that, it was silent again.

In a normal jet, it would take a bit longer to reach their destination in the forested, uninhabited region of Northern Pennsylvania from New York City, however the Quinjet wasn’t exactly your average passenger plane. The SHIELD technology was buried under layer after layer of classifications and clearance levels, the models and those in use closely guarded, so it had a few tricks up its sleeve, including cruising speeds that could outstrip just about any other vessel in the sky. Yeah, Clint really liked the Quinjet. A shame Fury wouldn’t let him have his own.

A flashing light on the radar console caught his attention. “What do we have here?” Something was detected in the air ahead of them. It was pretty far out, and small, so it could be a false positive- it got those sometimes, usually an error when they entered a drop in air pressure, though he couldn’t tell you why. Not his department. 

“What’s going on?” Natasha asked, eyeing the current blip in question.

“Probably nothing. Does that sometimes. But let me see,” A few deft swipes of the screen and a typed command later and the radar feedback was developing an outline of the volume of whatever it was pinging off of. 

“Is something going on up there?” Tony asked over the comms, everyone having heard what was being said in the cockpit. 

Hm, he didn’t like it that the radar showed it getting closer so quickly. “We’re about to see, probably not-” he stopped in his tracks, eyes glued to the screen. “Uh, does that look like…” he asked Natasha, trailing off.

“Yes,” she responded, her voice raised. “Clint-”

“I got it, I got it,” he repeated as he hurriedly grabbed the flight controls for himself, automatically engaging manual flight, and he deployed the flaps, creating drag and slowing their speed. “Buckle up everybody! Stark, standby. I’m gonna need you outside in a minute. We’ve got a missile inbound, looks like. Isn’t that lovely?” 

Clint pulled up sharply on the throttle at an angle, applying steady pressure and forcing the jet to take a sharp incline while veering to the left, the right wing lifting well above the left and the craft nearly went vertical for a very brief second, much to the protest of multiple display panels which started beeping and flashing warnings at him. Multiple somebodies were saying something over the comms, but Clint had stopped paying attention to them; he could either listen to their squabbling or he could listen to the variety of warning noises the voltage displays and primary events controls were making and keep an eye on the radar panel, and he was pretty sure they would rather him do the latter. 

“Aw, shit shit shit shit.” He quickly put down the flaps on the raised right wing, allowing it to streamline while the left continued to create drag which helped to level out the craft enough to continue to climb in altitude while still turning as sharply as possible; they were basically spiraling upward, though with a very large turning radius. He felt the whole thing shudder beneath him as he flew them higher into the air where more turbulent winds were picking up due to the gathering storm (which was, by the way, definitely an omen). “Nat, radar.”

“Incoming at 40 degrees below, altering course- missile guidance is locked on.”

“Well damn.” Of course they had to shoot something at them with on-board guidance telemetry. Because it just couldn’t be a nice, laid back Saturday, could it? “Fuck you, AIM. Fuck you.” Clint quickly took stock of his options. “Nat, give me closing distance.”

“Incoming 1300 yards and closing.” 

“Nat, keep a countdown on distance. Stark, I take it back. Don’t have time to open the bay doors- it’d just create too much drag.”

“1100 and closing.”

“What? Then what are we doing about the missile on our tail?” he yelled ever the warning siren that had begun- they were at too high of an altitude.

“Barton, do you have a plan?” Steve jumped on the end of Tony’s question. “And what is the siren going off in the cabin for?”

“900 and closing.”

“Alright everybody shut up!” And they did. Clint worked frantically, adjusting flaps, keeping their turn radius, watching cabin pressure- the altitude was still yelling at him- and running the numbers in his head. He had altered their course and the direction of the missile by default, though it was still coming at them. Swinging a wide, upward curve, he had managed to put them perpendicular to their previous path, and the missile made an equivalent adjustment. What did that do for them? It was now coming at them from behind, and they weren’t headed for the missile head on. “Not you Natasha. Keep it coming.”

“700 and closing at equal elevation climb.”

“Okay, that should be enough.”

“For what, exactly?” There was just a touch of nervousness behind her words. He glanced over at her, but didn’t have time to explain.

“Stark, electronics panel in the wall, red warning label, starboard side, see it?”

“Yeah, I see it.”

“Open it. I need you to cut the bundle of wires that are labeled ‘engine power backup’, got that?” They essentially were a redundancy measure, ensuring that power couldn’t be cut to the engines if all of the other controls retained power (basically if everything else was in use). 

“Uh, you know what those do, right? Are you totally sure-”

“Yes I’m sure just do it!”

“Done.”

“500 and closing.”

“A little closer..”

“400 and closing… 300 and closing.” She gave him a worried look. What was he waiting for?

“Enough, for this.” Clint flipped up the small protective panel on his left side console and hit the glowing red button underneath. On the belly of the Quinjet, a panel opened up, deploying a scattershot of small missiles that flew out in front of the jet, visible through the cockpit windows. They spread quickly, dozens of flaming streaks moving forward like a wall ahead of them as they gained distance. Clint didn’t wait for that though.

After deploying the missiles, he immediately activated all of the flaps on the wings and body of the craft, slowing its speed, and then entering a six digit command onto the console screen, he brought up the emergency controls and pressed the button to kill the engines. Complete engine loss. The humming stopped though their inertia kept them propelled forward, everything was eerily silent and still for a matter of milliseconds, but then there was the feeling of plummeting from the sky in a 13 ton metal shell. 

Then there was a lot of noise- yelling, to be precise, but Clint couldn’t focus on that either. Milliseconds flew by as the altitude monitor dropped like a rock. Wait. Wait. Wait. Now. He slammed down on the console screen once more, reviving the engines. The entire craft shook from tip to tail, engines straining, a half dozen alarms blaring, the wings leveling out, the body falling into alignment, their descent slowing, stabilizing, stopping. And they were just below cruising altitude again. Clint put down the flaps, and the Quinjet carried on without a problem.

A massive explosion lit up the sky with red and yellow fire ahead and pretty far above them. Other, smaller explosions followed suit around it as the guided missile that was sent after them collided with one of the diversions the Quinjet had deployed and the resulting shock wave activated the rest. After a moment, however, the fire and roiling smoke dissipated with the winds, and as Clint redirected the jet’s path, they left the falling, twisted, tiny bits of shrapnel behind them. He lowered their altitude significantly until they were coming in just 50 meters above the treeline- far to low for any missile system.

Clint pulled his headset off and dropped it to the floor, taking a deep breath. It was quiet. Very quiet. Everyone seemed to be wrapping their heads around what had just happened.

“Well,” Clint drawled out, “that’s another one for the books.”

There was a long silence. “Clint…” Natasha’s voice was quiet, lacking in any sort of indicators as to her current feelings.

“Yes?”

“I am going to kick your ass. That,” she said sharply, “is what you call stupid, and reckless.”

“Okay,” was his only response. He didn’t need his headset or comm, or even his hearing aids, to hear when everyone from the back started yelling at him. “Hey, guys. Hey! Chill, for a second.”

“Do not tell me to chill. Don’t you dare,” Tony emphasized each word, voice low and, to put it simply, really pissed off. “What the HELL was that? What the-”

He craned his head around to yell back at them. “Stop. I did what I had to do- be glad we didn’t end blown to pieces by the anti-aircraft missile we just avoided,” Clint yelled back into the bay. “And you know, you could even be a little grateful-”

“Clint,” Natasha cut him off. “Look.”

He turned back to face forward in his seat, seeing what Natasha was pointing at out in front of them. “Oh.”

A massive, low laying concrete complex sprawled out, hidden from all around by the tall forest of densely packed trees all around for miles and miles. The thing was two stories tall at it’s highest, and maybe the length of three football fields in length and half a field wide. It was laid out in an ‘L’ shape. The space in the front was occupied by a parking lot with a surprising number of cars in it, and, just empty space. Layers of fencing surrounded the outside perimeter of the rectangular lot, guard towers at every corner and at the front gates, to which a narrow, winding road through the forest led. It looked like it could have been a prison or something of that nature- not a government research facility. Needless to say, it was pretty shady. 

Except, it was under attack. 

The front doors of the building looked like they had been blasted apart, rubble littering the ground around it, the walls scorched black, a gaping hole in the wall. The second floor was on fire, a little farther left of what had been the front doors, flames licking out of the windows and oily black smoke rising in columns into the sky. 

Just inside the gate, or what once was the gate before it was apparently run down by armored humvees, there were more SHIELD SUVs, though they were scattered in a more haphazard manner. There appeared to be a guard tower that had fallen, collapsed to one side of the gate. There were more black uniformed figures scurrying around behind the SUVs, some laying still on the ground. And they were being fired upon, the back end of the line of humvees providing cover to a mob of yellow clad AIM agents. It didn’t look good.

Two helicopters hovered and circled in the air above the lot, and one, though it still had its blades spinning, had set down. Seven black humvees looked to have plowed through the front gate and pulled up to the front of the building. The helicopters and humvees all had AIM’s insignia. But it also looked like SHIELD had a arrived on scene as well. A Quinjet much like their own, except black and with SHIELD’s emblem as opposed to a deep maroon-ish red with the Avengers logo, was also set down in the parking lot by the end of the leg of the ‘L’. A line of black SUVs- also SHIELD’s- had pulled up around it forming a barrier. Clint could see people- dark uniforms, so they had to be SHIELD personnel or people from inside the research laboratory- moving about between the SUVs and the landed Quinjet, as well as moving around farther back, closer to the building where there looked to be a side door. 

It was a mess though- unorganized, chaotic, SHIELD’s people on the ground under fire and separated from each other. If Clint were to guess, AIM came a lot more prepared for SHIELD to respond than the quickly mustered agents were prepared to counter. 

“Hey, Cap,” Clint called. “Get up here and take a look at this.”

Steve, shoulders hunched to avoid hitting his head on the low ceiling of the cockpit, came forward to look out the front windows. “Damn. This doesn’t look good.”

“No, it doesn’t. Looks like SHIELD is getting their asses kicked.”


	5. no man's land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I feel like by now I don't have to tell you, but warning anyway- descriptions of violence. Yeah, they're in a big fight. Surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uggg this is so long, but I just couldn't break it up, ya know? And now it's past 2 AM because I told myself at 11 PM I was so close and just needed to finish... well, little did I know  
> I'm gonna take a week long nap now. Someone wake me up when the weather's nice. (Because it sucks right now)

“What’s the plan here, Cap,” Clint asked, bringing the Quinjet to a stall and hovering down low over the trees, the craft still cloaked, so as far as he could tell, they were coming in unseen. From human eyes that was. Radar technology could still pick them up- hence the surprise ATA guided missile- which is why Clint brought her down as near the tree tops as possible.

“Does AIM know we’re here?”

“Um, maybe,” Clint shrugged.

“We don’t have time for ‘maybe’s.” His response was clipped, tone urgent, though not necessarily rude. Still, Clint didn’t like Captain America Steve as much as Steve Steve.

“I can tell you we’re hidden right now. Obviously their radar picked up us back there- probably off one of those blackhawks,” he said, indicating to the helicopters. “But if I had to guess they were expecting SHIELD backup, and they would have seen the explosion, so…”

He took no more than five seconds to consider Clint’s words, eyes scanning the scene before them. “Alright,” he called out, turning halfway so he wasn’t blocking the door and speaking louder to everyone in the bay and the cockpit. “Plan’s to go in fast before they know we’re coming and make as much noise as possible and hopefully draw fire away from SHIELD’s men on the ground. Tony, Natasha, I want you to focus on the group by the gate. Thor, get me an aerial view, take care of those helicopters. Clint, you’re with me. We’re going down to where it looks like most of SHIELD’s gathered at the East wing of the building. Banner, only last resort.”

According to the plan, Clint brought the jet in low and fast toward the front gates. As they were near enough that their veil wouldn’t hold up to closer inspection and the hum of the rotating engines could be heard anyway, Clint tapped the console and their craft became entirely visible in the daylight; more than that though, he wanted the SHIELD agents pinned down behind their armored SUVs to know they weren’t AIM, and were there to help.

Clint pulled the craft around to an open space in the lot, placing the SUVs and SHIELD’s guys between where he was putting down temporarily and where a few dozen of AIM’s agents were slowly approaching and laying down heavy fire with some sort of weapon that fired a streak of blue light which blasted a small crater into whatever it hit and left a smoldering, ashen residue in its wake. SHIELD’s few armored SUV’s weren’t standing up too well to it. 

Clint did not want to get hit by that.

Hovering just under two meters off the ground, he opened up the bay doors, which descended from under the back of the Quinjet. Craning around in his seat, he watched as Stark, complete with iron man armor and a sarcastic salute, jumped from the partway distended ramp and took off with a roar of propulsors. Natasha, first aid bag slung over her shoulder, was about to drop to the ground after him. She looked back quickly, catching his eyes. 

“I’ll see you later,” he called back to her, but what sounded like a normal farewell was more of a reassurance to himself, and an order to her.

“Count on it.” She turned, and taking a short jog down the lowered ramp, jumped, dropping from sight. He wasn’t able to see her again when he lifted the craft and continued toward the building.

Having regained altitude and turned the craft around, they had the rest of the battle ground in sight. Unfortunately, dropping their visibility cloaking and stalling at the gates- even for a precious few seconds as they were- had put them on AIM’s radar again.

“Okay, I’ve got choppers on my ass again,” Clint grumbled, really having had enough of this for one day.

“Thor-” Steve didn’t have to finish that though. 

“I will take care of it.” Clint not having bothered to close the bay doors, Thor stepped out into the air, vanishing from sight. The crack of thunder and lightning arcing across the sky told him enough.

Clint ignored the two helicopters that were coming around to face him, and instead skimmed over the tops of cars, SUVs, and humvees that were scattered below them toward the back right corner of the lot where the majority of SHIELD’s forces seemed to have coalesced around a landed Quinjet behind their semicircle wall of armored cars which protected them on their flank facing the open parking lot- though besides near the gate farther back, it was empty. The right angle of the building provided cover on two other sides, leaving one open though facing away from all of the conflict, so given their options, it wasn’t a bad place to be. 

Clint took advantage of the opening and maneuvered the Quinjet above the space, turning it about so the bay opened up to the inner circle. They hit down a little hard on the pavement, but they were in a rush, and it wasn’t like they could expect him to be perfect or anything.

He powered down, rapidly unbuckling and throwing the harness off of his shoulders, grabbed his recurve bow from the wall, and jogged after Steve and Banner, who were making their way down the ramp to the pavement. SHIELD agents- dozens of them- were running back and forth outside: yelling orders, calling out names and asking about locations, transferring intel. In the disorder though, there was also the beginnings of an organized response. The bay doors of SHIELD’s Quinjet, which was positioned in the middle of the space they had occupied, were open and the bay seemed to serve as a command post, runners moving in and out, blueprints and files being brought in. 

A uniformed agent ran to meet them as they exited their craft. A little out of breath, soot smeared across his forehead and cheekbone and looking a little worse for wear, he stumbled to a stop in front of the three men.

“Captain Rogers, Agent Barton, Dr. Banner. Sousa wants to see you.” He turned on his heel and jogged back toward the second grounded aircraft, dodging and weaving around others running in every which way. They followed, agents parting way for the three Avengers.

“I didn’t know they still put Sousa in the field,” Clint said as he went. Steve turned his head to glance at him before looking back where he was going.

“You work with him before?” 

“Her. And no, just heard about her, uh, questionable methods is all.”

They didn’t have time for anything else. As they rounded the wing, Clint automatically jerked his head back toward the gate at the boom of thunder and saw Thor in the air and a smoking helicopter careening toward the side of the building. He managed to glance Tony farther back, rocketing upward through the air and firing off beams of energy at what he could only assume were AIM forces on the ground, before he was following Steve and Banner up the ramp and into the bowels of the ship.

Agent Sousa was leaning forward on her hands over a quickly assembled table, two other agents, a man and woman, on either side of her. Her dark hair was pulled back in a tight military style bun and she wore a pinched expression on her face. What looked to be building floor plans marked in various places with bold black ink were stretched out in front of her. 

“Captain Rogers. Your timing is impeccable. We were just about to focus our efforts on the AIM squadron at the front gates that had our people pinned down, but it seems like you have that under control.”

Steve glanced sideways at Clint, giving him a look and a nod back toward where the conflict at the gates. “Got it,” he nodded, and Clint stepped back and out of the way. Steve began with rapid fire questions about the situation, what had transpired so far, SHIELD and AIM’s position and strength, etcetera, however Clint stopped focusing on that and brought a hand up to him comm. “Stark, Natasha, status?”

The response came a moment later, the cracked sound of an explosion and interference carrying over. “Everything’s mostly alright-” he paused as the sound of screeching, tearing metal filled the air. “What’s left of SHIELD is back on their feet, and we’re making progress. Heads up though, these guys have some weird technology I haven’t seen before. Some sort of raw energy barrier shielding them- annoying cockroaches won’t stay down. And, whatever you do, do not get hit with the blue plasma stuff.”

Natasha’s voice, the faintest evidence that she was out of breath, came over the comms. “I would recommend taking that advice. There isn’t much I can do for most of these downed agents.” A pause. “It isn’t a pretty sight, Clint.”

“Copy that-” Clint looked up when Steve jostled his elbow on his way past to get his attention, motioning for him to follow him out and back to the ground. “Update us on any developments.” He let the comm go silent. (To keep it short and relevant and cut down on ambient noise from everyone else’s end, their comms- via Jarvis- only transmitted when someone voiced a direct connection.) Upping his pace to catch up with Steve, he filled him in on their teammates’ situation, as well as their warning.

“Alright. Banner is staying with the Quinjet. You and I-” A helicopter exploded, flames and shrapnel radiating out from where it had been suspended in the sky, the sound causing them both to flinch. “We’re moving into the building.” He raised a hand almost involuntarily to his earpiece. “Stark, Romanoff- we’re moving into the building, starting on the East side. It has four basement floors, so we’re working top down, floor by floor. When you have everything under wraps there, join us. Thor, keep your position, keep us updated of anything out of the ordinary.”

They were running toward the side entrance- Clint, bow in hand, instinctively keeping low as he went, eyes scanning in all directions for any immediate trouble, and Steve, shield on arm, tactical navy blue uniform a much more sensible color scheme than the stars and stripes though, and tall and resolute in posture and pose. They couldn’t be more different.

As they moved, Steve gave him a very brief rundown of what SHIELD knew so far. 

This entire conflict was only underway for a little over fifteen minutes by time they arrived. The vast majority of AIM’s foot soldiers (they didn’t know how many exactly, the first SHIELD agents having arrived on scene moments after) went straight into the facility, blasting through the front door, while others- the ones Tony and Natasha had engaged- arrived in a second wave and kept SHIELD’s agents on site busy. A few of the employees from the first and second levels- analysts, lab technicians, researchers- had been evacuated from the ground floor and questioned by SHIELD. However, while the have records of nearly a hundred civilians working in the building, they had yet to see anyone else leaving or moving around within. 

SHIELD’s rapid response teams had secured and where holding down the East wing of the two above ground levels, however they were stretched too thin and met resistance, forcing them to hold their positions. So that’s where they were starting. 

The side entrance was a three inch reinforced steel door complete with fingerprint scanner and six digit code keypad. Or at least it was. SHIELD agents had taken it off its hinges and completely out of the wall with enough plastic explosives to have partially vaporized the concrete the doorway was set into and to have left a small crater in the ground before it. Two SHIELD agents, wearing full sets of Kevlar body armor from helmet to knee pads and the vest strapped with ammunition, tear gas, and flashbang grenades in between, were positioned at the door, each with semi-automatic assault rifles in hands and glock-19s strapped at their sides.

Immediately through the doorway, or what was once a doorway, they stepped over light debris and into the end of a hallway that seemed to extend a straight shot down the building until the East wing they were in met the North side of the building at a 90 degree angle. There were doors spaced evenly down the corridor on either side, grey metal rectangles breaking up the whitewashed starkness of the plasterboard and polished tile floors. More SHIELD agents holding their positions, still and silent, at every door, every room on that end of the floor cleared. 

What first made itself obvious was the smell. That unnaturally clean chemical odor that bit at the senses, smelling like it should burn. He could taste it. Not a speck or smudge of anything organic or unclean in nature could be seen on the sterile white walls, ceiling, or floor, lacking in color or texture to diffuse the bright florescent light that shone so harshly from the ceiling runners suspended above them. And it was quiet. Unnaturally so, much like every other aspect of the place. There wasn’t so much as a hum of an air conditioning unit or a faint rush emanating from pipes hidden in the walls. Not even the air stirred. Not cold nor warm, it simply lay dead. Scoured with antiseptic, purged. Everything about it made the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end.

They moved quickly and efficiently, though walking as softly and bearing each step as lightly as he possibly could, both of their footsteps still carried on the dead air, seeming to be just that much louder with the muted atmosphere around them. Clint, bow in hand, pulled an arrow from over his shoulder and nocked it, drawing back on the string lightly as they progressed, ready to draw back and let it fly at a moment's notice. In his experience, when something didn’t feel right like this place didn’t, it was best to go with gut instinct- and he had a pretty refined instinct when it came to perilous situations.

The end of the corridor brought them to a room that served as a junction between the two segments of the building. It was sectioned off into office space with floor to ceiling glass walls farther back and desks arranged in clusters throughout the center of the room. Gleaming white tile transitioned to a smooth grey threadbare carpet. This room, bearing more evidence than the rest that actual human beings had been there, left the impression that people had left in a hurry: papers left on desks, a landline phone off of its hook, chairs disorganized and pushed out of the way, glass doors left hanging open. More than that, there was evidence of a fight. 

The walls of the hallways, from what Clint could see, were scoured deeply, the grooves left behind blackened and burned, plaster flaking and drifting to the ground. They were large too. Much larger than bullets, and the tails on the marks, like meteors, indicated they weren’t fired from the room Clint was standing in. Two desks nearest the hallway looked to have been turned on their sides to act as cover and pushed into the open hallway entrance, though as scorched and splintered as they were, it seemed that plan hadn’t worked out.

SHIELD agents, six of them, were gathered along the wall to their lefts on either side of the entrance of the hallway that began down the main, longest segment of the building, the carcasses of the two wooden desks and debris from them littering the ground and only serving to provide an obstacle to a quick approach. The two nearest the corners were down on one knee, bullet resistant metal plated ballistic shields propped in front of them. One was using a mirror to see around the corner, the other with assault rifle ready. The next two had their backs pressed against the wall and weapons ready, and the last two were facing in toward each other across the doorway, each with one shoulder pressed close to the wall. 

It was common a breaching formation, one which Clint recognized immediately. Upon the third agent down on the left catching sight of them and flashing him an abrupt, twisting hand signal, Clint nudged Steve none too gently with an elbow and indicated with a sharp jerk of his chin to move to the wall, staying clear of the line of sight down the hallway. 

They had reached no man’s land. 

Here was the end of the area SHIELD had secured. Beyond that doorway, anything could be lurking- or more specifically, AIM agents, doing whatever it was they had come to do, and no doubt lying in wait for SHIELD’s inevitable surge through the facility. 

Edging along the wall toward the nearest agent, Steve following him, Clint spoke as quietly and in as few words as he could, tone low and deadly serious. “Situation?”

His back to Clint as he stood shoulder against the wall, eyes trained on the corner before him, he didn’t so much as shift a centimeter when he responded. “First sector secured, here and next floor up. Quiet for the last five minutes. Firefight came to a standstill- looks like AIM pulled back, but we don’t have the men to push forward.” 

He nodded, not that the agent could see him. “Civilians?” 

“Negative. Everyone we encountered, we evacuated. Can’t say past here, though.”

“And AIM’s weaponry?”

That was the first time the agent hesitated. “Honestly Sir, I have no idea. Looks like a Beretta ARX-160 assault rifle, but bigger. Fires some sort of, blue flash. Incinerates whatever it touches.” He then added bitterly, “I’d say just ask three of my unit, but I think they’d have trouble responding.”

Clint sympathised. “We’ll take that under advisory. One last thing. What’s your name, agent?” 

“Meyer. Drew Meyer. 5th class weapons specialist, Bravo Team Rapid Response.” 

He liked to know someone’s name before he went into combat with them. It made remembering the dead eyes staring back at him more tolerable when he could put a name to them. Of course, he hoped to whatever god existed they would all make it out of there, and he wouldn’t add any more names to the running list in his head.

“Okay Cap,” Clint turned to press his back against the wall, looking at Steve, who had been listening closely. “What’re you thinking?”

“You and I work to clear these two floors, give SHIELD a solid footing before we breach the lower levels. And I want to wait to do move down until Stark and Romanoff can join us- I’ve got the feeling most of AIM will be concentrated down there. The labs and anything confidential they might have come for are down there.”

Clint nodded. “If we want to make sure SHIELD holds this sector, we’re gonna need to split up and clear both floors at once, or else when we apply pressure to one, the other is left vulnerable. Response units don’t have the manpower to hold it if a good number of AIM gets it in their minds to come back through here.”

Steve nodded, jaw tight, inhaling and exhaling sharply once as he allowed himself a few seconds’ concentration. “You’re right. I’ll move up a floor, you keep this one. We move together on my signal with whatever of SHIELD’s agents are available.”

“Copy that.” He looked back to the agent in front of him. “Alright Meyer. I’m gonna need your radio.” Unstringing and sliding his drawn arrow back into his quiver in one fluid motion, he reached with his free hand over the agent’s shoulder and tugged his hand radio free from the strap. “I’m about to tell Sousa what to do and she’s not gonna like it.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Supervising Agent Catherine Sousa was not having a good day. 

Deputy Director Hill had put her in the field because she was geographically close, but more importantly, she was decisive, grounded, and got results. Not through sitting at a desk and compromising with bureaucrats either, but through action. And they didn’t have time to spare to sit down and assess the situation- the facility was under direct attack. 

She had arrived with the first Rapid Response unit in the Quinjet, their reinforcements arriving simultaneously below them in a caravan of armored SUVs. The first AIM humvees had already crashed through the gates and pulled up at the front door- though by time she and her men had hardly got their feet on the ground, there wasn’t much of a front door left in the building. They barely had managed to set up their temporary operations center in the East corner of the lot when the helicopters, having come from the back side of the building, were on top of them, more AIM agents descending to the ground, dropping on the roof and at the front gates, cutting them off from SHIELD’s reinforcements. Four of the helicopters that had set down on the roof turned back immediately and left the scene behind them, the yellow clad agents having disembarked, carrying multiple large, dark colored though otherwise unremarkable boxes with them- two men to a crate each. She hadn’t seen any AIM reinforcements since, thankfully.

But her people were in shambles. Body armor did little against whatever weapons technology AIM’s agents were all wielding. Casualties were piling up, and morale was low. They had managed to take the first two floors of the Eastern sector of the building in one full frontal assault, though she doubted that it made any real impact, besides give them a grip on the facility they were trying to take back. Thankfully, they were timely enough about it that AIM hadn’t managed to spread that far into the building, which made it easier. However, there, they stopped. SHIELD simply hadn’t sent the manpower in the first wave to handle the situation immediately. 

The Avengers arriving was a relief in some ways- it certainly boosted morale and it gave them a real fighting chance- but the last thing she wanted to do was lose control of the situation to an unpredictable, undisciplined group of heroes. Maintaining order until the next wave of SHIELD tactical response units arrived was key. She had exactly two goals: eliminate the immediate threat, and prevent any confidential intelligence or technology from leaving the facility. If she had to hold out in their smaller sector of the facility until backup arrived from the SHIELD base an hour’s flight away, as long as AIM’s agents stayed in the building like they were, she would do that.

In the bay of the Quinjet, she was busy organizing information from half a dozen different runners, radio reports from HQ, and her units posted in the facility. Pouring over the floor plans with her second and third in command, they planned out a double pronged sweep maneuver that flush AIM out into the open, when the time came. 

She looked up when a young agent- Moore, she thought his name was- jogged up the lowered ramp and came to a stop in front of the table a respectful few feet back. He panted slightly, chest rising and falling more pronouncedly than typical. “Ma’am. Radio for you. Agent Barton. He and Captain Rogers are in the facility, about to to sweep the first and second floors.” He proffered the handheld radio.

“What?” She leaned forward across the table and took it from his outstretched hand. “Back to your station.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” He turned on his heel and jogged back out into the frenzy of activity.

Holding the radio up to her face, she pressed the transmitter button on the side down firmly, speaking. “This is Sousa.”

It clicked, a voice she recognized as the archer’s coming through. “Clint Barton. Listen, Rogers and I are about to push through the top two floors. We n-”

“Hold it right there. We don’t have the manpower to hold both levels, much less take them.” A frown settled on her face, darkening her features.

“That’s what we’re here for,” he cut in. “And once we secure the ground level and clear the top, the agents only need to secure the ground floor entrances to the basement levels- AIM has pulled back, that’s where their concentrated. And we aren’t going down there until the rest of our team finish up outside.”

“My, agents,” she clarified, tone sharp. “The ones you’re going to get killed. I have jurisdiction here. And I’m saying that the risk is too high. We wait the thirty minutes for backup.”

“All due respect Ma’am-”

“No. I don’t care if you play dress up with a band of heroes. You are a SHIELD operative, and s your superior officer, Agent Barton, I command you to stand down,” she ordered in no uncertain terms.

“Come on- there are civilians in here,” he said, tone going darker. “The top floors more so than the bottom. AIM doesn’t need them for anything, and they don’t take hostages. They can’t wait-”

“They, are not the main objective. They are not my responsibility. Our task is t-”

“Bullshit,” he all but growled. “That is bullshit. Saving civilian lives may not be on you list of priorities, but they’re damn well high up on our’s. And by the way, I answer to Fury, and the Captain. So you can take it up with one of them. Now either send in whatever agents you have outside, or pull them all out, and stay out of our way.”

“Agent Barton-” No response. “Goddammit, Agent Barton,” she said louder. Still nothing. She slammed the radio down on the table none too gently. “Fucking heroes.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Natasha dove as a pulsing flash of blue shot over her head, swearing darkly as she hit the asphalt. Rolling quickly, she slid to cover behind a semi-melted armored black SUV. “ебать это,” she grumbled as she spared a second to catch her breath and wipe the trickle of blood from her brow with the back of her hand. 

“Natasha, you alright?” Stark’s voice came through her comm, not overly concerned, but cautionary nonetheless. 

“Fine,” she said sharply, uttering the syllable as if it were another curse. “How is your reboot coming along?”

“It’s moving,” he sighed, frustration biting at his tone. “76 percent.” 

One of AIM’s agents had pulled a nasty surprise and got a lucky shot while Tony was hovering low to the ground, staying in one place for just a moment too long. Some sort of magnetic device that stuck to Tony’s suit when he through it. Sparks flew, something shorted, and it overloaded his suit. He fell the three meters or so from the sky. Luckily, he landed behind an isolated humvee which provided him some cover and he had his systems partially up and running again in about 60 seconds while Natasha rushed to cover him. At 25 percent it was enough to use his varied arsenal of small missiles, guidance system, and hand repulsors. He was grounded though, the thrusters requiring a complete system reboot. No doubt, after this, Stark would hole up in his workshop until he had ten different solutions to the problem and upgrades to prevent any similar future situation.

Natasha peered over the hood of the vehicle, the stench of melted rubber from the tires almost making her nauseous. Two AIM agents advancing on her. As they lifted their weapons to fire what she knew would be another unending barrage of blue plasma- raw energy in an almost material form that dissipated immediately upon hitting a solid mass that absorbed that energy- she ducked again, keeping behind the wall that the vehicle provided her. 

At this point, AIM’s men at the front gate were scattered in small clusters around the obstacle course of small craters in the ground and severely damaged vehicles. It had been very slow going though; their weaponry allowed them to rain down a nearly continuous stream of plasma that made it basically impossible to duck out from cover and return fire, especially when they were in large groups. Not to mention, she and Stark were pretty much on their own- whatever SHIELD agents had still been in fighting condition they told to pull the injured out and haul ass back to the East corner of the lot where a temporary command center was organized. It was the right call. Those agents wouldn’t have been a lot of help anyway. There was just very little that could be done. 

It was infuriating. 

The hail of blue paused for a moment, the sizzling, popping sound of the near molten side of the vehicle dying out, though the horrid odor filling the air and clinging to everything. Christ, she was never going to get the stench out of her hair. 

Crouching there behind the desecrated hunk of metal that may or may not have actually been a car at some point, she spotted a small, round dark object flying through the air overhead coming down to land in her direction. 

Grenade.

Oh no you don’t. She vaulted over the top of the SUV and rolled on her shoulder, kicking the low flying projectile back the way it came, directly at the two AIM agents, who were left with too little time and reacted too slowly to do anything but freeze in horror. Natasha dug her boots into the mostly unmelted but definitely warped hood of the SUV and, propelling herself up and over the top, threw herself off and came down to the ground behind it as an explosion ripped through the air behind her. 

Returned to sender.

She rolled on the asphalt, grimacing at the strain in her shoulder. She had pulled something a while back there. Without pause, she leaped forward out of her recovery into a dead sprint toward a humvee twenty feet away, pulling a slim blade- one of many- from her belt as she did so, twirling it in her fingers to grip it firmly. She had spied movement and a flash of that disgusting yellow color behind it. Something snap crackle popped as it whizzed by her through the air. She pushed herself faster. Stepping on the edge of the tire and leaping to the hood, she vaulted over it and down on the back of an unsuspecting AIM agent. Her right knee landing solidly on the woman’s shoulder, her other hitting her between the shoulder blades, she fell forward face first into the ground, and as Natasha landed kneeling on top of her, using her weight coming down as the force behind the strike, she sank the blade into her back right between the woman’s vertebrae, effectively severing her spinal cord. It was quick, unalarming, painless. Not a terrible way to go.

Natasha didn’t retrieve her blade- it was too deep, wedged between bone, and slick with blood- she knew from experience more than lengthy examination. She didn’t have the time, and she had plenty more.

Never stopping in her forward, downward path, she tumbled forward somewhat ungracefully but was up and running again immediately. Standing in any one place for more than a moment was a guaranteed disaster. Running, dodging, ducking projectiles that she couldn’t see from behind her, she slid over the hood of another charred, melted vehicle, falling to the ground heavily and landing flat on her chest. Grunting in discomfort, she scrambled to a crouch once more, looking around frantically for another glimpse of yellow. But nothing yet.

She caught her breath, rolling her aching shoulder. Each passing dive, roll, sprint, repeat maneuver left her a little more tired, her execution a little less flawless and ungainly. But they were almost done here. Now, there were so few, she was the hunter, no longer the lone prey surrounded by a swarm of predators. She had been taking them down one or two at a time- her and Stark both- but it just made them harder to find.

At least they were considerate enough to wear such a bright shade of yellow. 

Movement. One of them- no, three of them, crouching low behind the nearest humvee. They moved carefully, though not stealthily. Those were two different things. AIM agents were trained in a lot of things, but stealth, that wasn’t one of them. As they scurried forward, away from the cover of the vehicle, Natasha adjusted accordingly to stay out of their line of sight. She shifted back and around the other side of the SUV so that when she moved away from the cover it provided her, their backs were to her. And that, more than anything else, was a mistake.

On silent feet, she slid forward, closing the distance between them. Thirty feet. Twenty. Ten feet. Five. Crouched low, two slender knives pulled from the back of her belt, she leaped forward at the exposed back of her nearest victim. Simultaneously, she wrapped an arm around his neck for leverage, yanking back with the hook of her elbow, and buried the blade deeply between his shoulder blades where it would pierce his heart. With a tremor, his body thrashed once silently, and fell. Pulling his weight back toward herself, she began to lower him as quietly as possible to the ground.

Unfortunately, either the movement or lack thereof had the second agent, who was in front of them, glancing behind him. He startled with a yelp at the sight of Natasha, knife wielding hands bloodied, crouched over the still and silent agent.

She moved quickly, muscle memory kicking in. She couldn’t give him time to bring him gun up; she had no cover, and was too close to effectively leap out of the way. Luckily for her, she had it easy.

Twenty one feet.

That was the distance in which it was possible for someone wielding a knife to close the gap between themself, and someone drawing a gun on them. Guns, in the hands of amateurs, were dangerous. And not because they were trigger happy. Rather, they were dangerous for themselves, because they made the same mistake everyone made. Guns are meant for distance. But pull a gun on someone within twenty one feet of you who knows what they’re doing, and they’ll have disarmed you or disemboweled you before you ever get the chance to draw, lift, aim, and fire. 

And she was hardly ten feet away.

Natasha was on him in a heartbeat. Leaping forward, she kicked the bulky, long barreled plasma blasting piece of hardware to the side, sending it spinning across the asphalt. Following through with her momentum, she spun on her heel back toward him and leaping, planting a foot in his gut for lift, she vaulted up to his shoulders. Twisting around, silver blade edge flickering, she rolled backward over his shoulders and hit the ground in a crouch. Behind her, the AIM agent stumbled and collapsed to his knees, hands clutching at his throat, across which a crimson stain spread. Gurgling once more as arterial blood welled in his throat and mouth, he fell forward, and did not move again.

Natasha didn’t look back. Walking away, she quickly knelt down between two adjacent humvees, whipping the smears of red from the sides of her blades off on her thigh before sliding them back into their sheaths at her lower back. 

“Stark,” she said, one hand lifting to her comm, the other going up to whip the blood from her brow again before it got in her eye. The small gash at her temple stung, but the impairment to her vision it posed was the real problem. “See any more?”

“No… wait.” There was a pause, then the familiar whine of repulsors. Natasha saw a streak of light off to her right, near the gate. She also saw a yellow form propelled back through the air. “Nope. Don’t see any.”

“Okay, status?” 

“Almost, almost, come on come on come on- got it,” he nearly cheered, sounding relieved, but still unnerved that it had been a problem in the first place. “Jarvis,” she heard him say, “scan for heat signatures.” 

Sighing, “Better late than never,” Natasha muttered, which Tony promptly ignored. A moment passed, the silence dragging on uneasily as Natasha’s eyes still darted back and forth, wary for movement on all sides. 

“Okay, all clear. Only living breathing people out here are you, me, and the SHIELD agents holding the East perimeter,” he said, and she saw him fly into the air, doing yet another visual scan from above. “Yep, we’re all good out here.”

Her shoulders sagged slightly in relief. Huffing a sigh, she pushed herself up and set out at a jog, toward the Eastern sector. “Thor, you finished up yet?” After he made short work of the first one, and helped Tony and her to break up the swarm of AIM agents, he had taken off after the two other choppers, which had taken off in opposite directions. They weren’t entirely significant, but they couldn’t let either of them get away and bring information, or bring back reinforcements, to any AIM base set up nearby. That taken care of, he also conducted a quick aerial search in a little over a mile radius, just in case AIM had any surprises up their disgustingly yellow sleeves.

“Indeed, I have. And I’ve concluded that there are no others, and nothing of note besides a great many trees and the single narrow road, within the area. I am returning now.”

“Good, meet us at the Quinjet,” Tony answered as he flew by over her head. She upped her pace.

Upon crossing the parking lot and nearing the semicircle of entirely nonmelted SUVs, Natasha noticed a lot of movement from the perimeter- more than there had been. SHIELD agents were pulling in from their posts, a good number of them- maybe almost two dozen- all geared in full body armor and semiautomatic assault rifles, pouring in through the side door of the building.

Without stalling her pace, she lifted a hand to her ear. “Clint, Steve.”

“Nat?” Clint asked. “You okay?” He was quick to respond, though his voice was low, and she recognized the tone- he was in the middle of something.

“Romanoff, status?” Steve added a second later, tone still flat, low, serious- obviously Captain Rogers speaking, not Steve.

“We’re fine. It’s all cleared up out here. Thor took care of the choppers and did a sweep in a mile radius- nothing. AIM’s guys all in the building- I don’t know why, or what they’re doing that’s taking them long enough to sacrifice a quick in and out escape, but they are,” she mused, still watching the movement as she finally came up the the barrier of SUVs, rounding them and entering the circle of activity.

“I know- that’s what concerns me,” Steve replied. A moment later, a frustrated exhale. “It’s too quiet. Where are they?”

“No go here here as well, and we’re approaching the front lobby. Cleared every room- nothing.”

So they were in the middle of clearing the levels- that explained the hushed, cautious tones. “There’s a lot of movement out here. Agents pulled off the perimeter- Sousa’s sending in almost everyone she has. Are they coming to you?”

There was a long pause before anyone responded. “To be honest, I thought she was hanging us out to dry before you said that just now,” Clint said. “Seems like she’s decided to help after all.”

Natasha almost walked into Tony when he stepped out from around the back of the Quinjet. Having just spoken with Sousa’s right hand on scene- an Agent Pratt- he informed the rest of the team of SHIELD’s motives. “Hey Cap, Barton, backup’s on the way, but Sousa won’t have anyone engaging in combat unless absolutely necessary. They’ll lock down whatever floors you clear though. You won’t have AIM coming up behind you- and let me tell you, the sneaky bastards really like coming up right behind you.” 

“Not what I hoped for,” came Steve’s response.

“Better than nothing, I guess- and you’re right Cap, it’s way too qu-”

The sound of an explosion drown out his already low voice, loud enough to make all of them and every SHIELD agent outside start violently and turn toward the noise as it ripped through the air. Glass shattering outward, fire and roiling black smoke plumed from the row of windows on the ground floor to the left side of the main entrance. The small fire on the second floor that had been smoldering when they arrived had died back a short while ago, but now, a full blow inferno consumed the section of the front of the building. The leaping orange and red flames reached toward the sky as they poured out of the windows, which had been obliterated by the shock wave.The volume of the blast too much for their comms, the transmission was replaced by shrieking feedback and static, before it had died down. 

For the longest milliseconds of her life, Natasha was paralyzed, frozen to the asphalt, her breath caught in her lungs despite how much she wanted to say something, anything, her eyes stuck on the raging flames. She swore her heart stopped in her chest. There was yelling, Tony, right in front of her, his voice also coming through her comm. Steve, apparently forgetting that he was also trying to remain quiet and undetected. Thor, from wherever he was high above, and even Banner, who had been helping SHIELD medics with the wounded, called to their teammate- her partner- in desperation. Nothing.

The comms came back to life with a click.

But then, relief flooding her body, the sudden and uncontrollable panic in that moment receding far, far back when she heard his voice over the comms. He was alive, at least.

“God, fucking, dammit,” he yelled, the background carrying through the roar of the flames near him. “I take it back. I preferred it when it was quiet,” he coughed, straining in the heat and smoke that robbed the oxygen from the air. “Okay, I found them,” he called, not sounding too pleased about his discovery.

Steve was asking him if he was hurt, Tony for what happened, but he ignored them both in his nonstop stream of profanities and vented frustration. “Fuck you AIM, screw all of you,” he yelled hoarsely, the sound of gunfire- not the plasma, bullets- in the background. The faint twang of a released bowstring. Sounds of conflict- up close and personal hand to hand fighting- bodies crashing into things, multiple voices- not Clint though- yelling in pain, yelling to each other, general chaos. “You pieces of actual human filth. Don’t you know it’s a fucking Saturday? Get off me you- fucking hell!” Surprise crept into his tone. “Did you just fucking bite me? I’ll rip your goddamn arms off and feed them to you- how about that?” A crash, renewed gunfire. “Get your yellow asses back here, so I can-”

“Barton! Enough!” Steve stopped him mid sentence. “What happened, and are you injured, goddammit.”

Clint started to respond, but broke down in a fit of coughing. “He’s fine,” Natasha, having already taken off running, answered for him; he wouldn’t have been so… that… if he were actually hurt. She knew him. Miraculously, just this once, misfortune knocked on his door and he didn’t open for it to hit him right in the face. “Stark and I are on our way. Hold tight Clint.”

“I’m fine,” he gasped. “Really.” A pause. “There’s nothing on this floor- not gonna be anything up there either Cap. There were like six of ‘em, hard to tell through the smoke, hiding out here. Last two ran off down the stairs. They’re all underground, and it’s pretty obvious they want us to follow ‘em.”

Natasha pushed by SHIELD agents, dodging others as she cleared the side door and set off down the hallway. Up ahead, Stark had blasted a hole in the wall, spewing rubble she carefully avoided across the floor as he landed hard, the tiles cracking all around him.

“Clint, I’m coming your way now. Thor, I need you to hold the south side of the building, and help SHIELD lock down the perimeter. I don’t want any of AIM getting away. Stark, Romanoff, there are only two stairwells down to the lower levels- I need you both on the one nearest the east entrance. Barton, if you’re good to go on, you and I will take the one to the south. Banner, keep helping with the wounded, but we may need you yet. We’ll clear AIM out floor by floor and cover the exits. And if at all possible, we need them alive- they could have information, and anything is better than what we know right now. Everyone on board?”

Steve’s plan was as best they had; Thor was more useful in the air to watch for any surprises or AIM agents escaping, Banner was a last resort (everyone knew he would rather avoid conflict if at all possible), and the four of them would split up to take both stairs at once. 

“Yeah, I’m good- I’ll be at the door,” Clint rasped. He covered the lower half of his face as best he could to breathe without the smoke and ash causing his lungs to burn, eyes watering something awful from the dry heat and thick smoke, and picked his way through the burning room to the either side, where, down the hallway a ways, the door to the stairwell was set in the wall.

Others began voicing their agreement with the plan, though Natasha hesitated. “I’ll take the south stairwell with Clint- we work most efficiently together,” she stated by way of explanation. “You and Stark can take the other.”

“We’re already closest- we don’t have time to debate it. Go with Stark,” Steve said, running down the smoke filled stairs to the ground floor and swinging a left, seeing Clint leaning against the wall further down the hallway where the smoke was not overpowering

“Fine,” Natasha relented. She wasn’t going to put up much argument anyway. It wasn’t like she had any tactical reason for wanting to see for herself that Clint was okay and to be with him, to watch his back, as they faced even more threats down below, where AIM’s presence was strongest.

Natasha and Tony met at their door, Steve and Clint at theirs, SHIELD agents rushing around them to control the flames and lock down the ground and top floor. On Steve’s signal, they threw the doors open, and descended into the stairwells, weapons up and aimed, muscles tensed, and all eyes wide alert in search of any movement.

Clint, back close to the wall as they moved, kept an arrow nocked as he followed behind Steve who, shield in hand, covered them both. It was the most effective strategy they had worked out- Steve was more prepared to engage someone head on, given the shield and a free hand for close quarter combat, and Clint, with a higher vantage point on the stairs and more space between himself and a potential target, was free to cut down any surprises in their path. 

Even though the stairwells were absent of any smoke, every breath still stung his raw throat and lungs. His ankle didn’t feel that good either; when AIM’s explosion had gone off in the lobby in front of him, no doubt placed there for anyone who felt like following them through the front doors, he had been far enough back to avoid the flames and the worst of the impact, but he had still been thrown back into a wall, and he had tumbled awkwardly. His back and shoulder had taken most of the brunt of his unfortunate collision with the cinderblock, and while that was good considering he avoided slamming his head into anything, there was a weird twinge in his shoulder that shouldn’t have been there. 

For him, that was a definite cause for worry; couldn’t exactly use a bow with a bum shoulder. It was his left shoulder too, which was doubly unfortunate because it was the one that’s full range of motion he depended on the most, the one that he drew the string back with. So, after he dealt with the AIM agents that had rushed from the the other side of the lobby toward him (and, found that the best to combat their weird plasma energy guns was to get right up close and personal so he could take it from them and smash them over the head with it), he switched his bow over to the other hand, taking the short moments it took Steve to get down to him to switch over his tabs and arm guard as well. One neat thing about the recurve bow was that, in a pinch, he could use it just as well with either hand, even if it technically was designed to be held by the right. But, eh, semantics.

Down they went. Cautiously and steadily, each fully aware that AIM may have more tricks up their sleeve yet. Each step, each breath, each open door dragged on forever as time seemed to slow around him, hyper aware senses acutely aware of any and every signature of danger. At the first floor, they encountered AIM agents- at least a dozen, all gathered within a lab that opened across from the stairwell. A constant barrage of blue melted away the metal of the door, the concrete of the walls, and pushed them back up the stairs. However, a well placed explosive arrow broke them up enough them allow them the time to close the distance between them, and engage. 

They learned quickly that raw projectile energy doesn’t react well when it hits vibranium. In fact, it flares outward, hissing and burning anything and anyone around within two feet, and dissipates. 

When Clint saw too many converging on Steve, who attracted the brunt of the attack more often than not, Clint did his best to cut them down. By the third floor down however, when he depleted his first quiver, he was a little more frugal with every shot. He ended up being backed into the center of the conflict on more than one occasion, and bow in hand, praised the variety of uses one could find for the weapon. It had its limitations though, and he was careful not to damage it, twice falling back on the glock-19 strapped to the outside of his leg and the six inch dagger sheathed at his hip when the fighting became either too dense or too intense.

Multiple times, Steve and Clint’s path crossed with Tony and Natasha as they worked in tandem to clear the floors. Multiple times he found himself ducking behind Tony, who stood tall and unaffected in a hail of bullets, or standing back to back with Natasha as they fought, each’s combat flowing easily off the other as they worked to thin AIM’s ranks. They were everyone at once, dozens of them at each floor, running between laboratories and workshops and break stations. 

At one point, they learned that sending explosive arrows into a lab which’s shelves and tables were lined with highly organized, meticulously labeled glass and dark plastic containers of chemicals was not a good idea. In fact, it was a very bad one. The explosion from the arrow itself was as expected, but as random chemicals were vaporized and mixed, it was quickly followed by a plume of fire that rapidly advanced across the room, consuming everything in it, including multiple AIM agents. The very air around them all seeming to burn with violet tinge as it spread. Quite frankly it was horrifying to see a wall of leaping purplish flames coming right at you. However, after that second burst, it died back. The vapors and oxygen in the air could only sustain the inferno for a very short amount of time in the small, mostly enclosed room.

Clint, and all of them really, were more careful after that.

Truly though, the one thing that concerned all of them- well two things really- was that they had yet to encounter a single civilian. Not a single lab technician or researcher or scientist. Not an aid or assistant or white lab coat to be seen. Not even bodies. AIM’s agents were thinning out, and they only had one more floor to go.

Where the hell had nearly a hundred people gone?

Clint stumbled over something- oh, a body- and caught himself against the wall. Pausing for a moment, he caught his breath and spared the seconds to take stock of the situation wrapping up before him. Steve, throwing his shield, took down one of the last standing AIM agents with a heavy thunk, ricocheting off the cinder block walls of the hallway and making it back to him. He then ran right at the last two, dispatching them both with a few solid blows and a cringe worthy kick to the gut that sent the last one flying back into the wall.

Hastily cleaning off and sheathing his knife, he coughed forcefully into his elbow, lungs burning and diaphragm spasming uncomfortably, the tremors racking his whole frame for a moment until the fit subsided. He tasted copper, and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, it came away tinged red. He blamed it on all the smoke, of which he had inhaled a little too much of today. The back of his throat stung, feeling raw with every breath. It was hot down there, and felt like it was getting hotter, the air stagnant and sharp with chemicals. It didn’t help breathing any more than it seems like it would.

Otherwise though, besides a few minor scrapes, burns, and bruises, plus his twisted ankle and the weird twinge in his shoulder, he was okay. He’d had a few close calls with streaks of blue plasma, coming close enough to taste the burnt air around it, but he was quick, and the facility too close quartered with plenty of places to dodge and duck for cover for him to find himself really in trouble. And then, he did have Captain America watching his back- but he liked to think it was his own doing that kept him out of trouble. 

He retrieved a few arrows, slinging off blood and gore as best he could before he fit them back into the quiver hanging at his hip. Ugh, he was really gonna have to wash that out later. Steve, who besides the soot and grime on his suit (and, Clint had plenty of that too) and appearing a little out of breathe, seemed just fine, gave him the Look that asked if he was ready to move on of he needed another minute. Clint nodded, and stepped over the sprawled bodies- some moaning and shifting, some not- toward the stairwell door once more. 

Almost done, he told himself. Almost done. 

Steve checked in with Natasha and Tony, and then the four proceeded down the stairs to the bottom-most level. Upon opening the door, the first unsettling observation was that it was quiet, and still. No movement in the hallway, or behind the frosted glass windows set in the doors. They crept forward, on guard, nerves frayed from the extended hyper-alert state, and cleared the rooms nearest them. Nothing. They checked everything to the side, and then worked their way to the middle, where their paths would intersect Tony and Natasha’s. 

They didn’t get that far though.

The center of the floor was occupied by one large laboratory. The door, plastered in warning labels Clint felt like they should heed, looked more like the entrance to a secure bunker than a lab. Thick metal sheeting, bolts, welded reinforced frame- it was big, hulking, and Clint very much didn’t want to go through. Really, how could they though? That many locks on it, that thick of metal, the bars across the- oh. Steve stepped up to it cautiously while Clint was considering all of this from a few meters back, and gently pushed it open with a nudge. 

If you take the time to install a freaking massive bunker lock down door that the Pentagon would be proud of, take the time to lock the goddamned thing, would you? How disappointing.

The door, heavy and large as it was, glided open on well oiled hinges. And what it revealed made Clint’s heart drop.

All of them. Definitely at least a hundred. Some tied, some bleeding or battered, some crying, others pale with shock. Lined up and sat down in the middle of the tile floor of the cavernous room, lab desks, rows of tables, and dozens of chairs shoved aside with no heed for organization to make room for them. And they were dead silent. Their eyes were wild though, landing on Steve and Clint and the panic and desperation making themselves known. Still, they made not so much as a whisper. 

Clint thought maybe he knew why. In the middle of the mass of huddled civilians sat four rectangular stacks of exposed plastic explosive. They were massive- each a little over a square foot in length and width, maybe a little less in height. Individual, any of them would have the kick behind it to bring this building down. Together? A crater. On top of them sat electrical displays, a plethora of wires attached to detonators branching out and embedded in the pliable explosive material. Rather than a timer- thank god- or a blasting cap that Clint could see, there was a transceiver. That, was so not good.

Clint darted forward, grabbed Steve by the elbow and pulled him back, directing his attention to the massive fucking bombs in the middle of the room. They didn’t have time to decide what to do next. Each turned sharply, shield and bow raised, arrow pointed, at the voice that broke the silence and made Clint nearly jump out of his skin, if he was being completely honest.

“Captain Rogers. Do come in, your teammates as well. Please. We’ve got some things to discuss.”

Six AIM agents were lined up against the wall to their right in the room. In front of them stood another agent, the one who spoke, though unlike the others, he went without a helmet and mask. He looked normal, forgettable. Maybe in his 40’s, dark, short hair, salt and pepper at the temples, light complexion, long and narrow face, faint creases over his brow and around his eyes. He looked confident, completely relaxed, unarmed- even if the six others behind him had guns in hand. He beckoned for them to enter as if welcoming houseguests- Clint was getting a freaky super villain vibe from the whole thing.

Across the room, through the second, identical door, Natasha and Tony saw and hear the same thing. Unfortunately, this AIM dude was fully aware of them as well, so they had no element of surprise. Not really having any other immediate options, Steve, without taking his eyes off of the guy in charge, nodded to the others, who were looking for his approval. The four of them stepped into the room, though stayed within diving range of the door, just in case. Not that it would help if those explosives detonated.

“Who are you,” Steve asked, tone flat.

“I, am the man holding this,” he said simply, and raised his right hand, a small black rectangle in hand. A controller. Oh shit. Immediately, Clint had his bow raised, fully drawn and the notched arrow leveled at the man’s forehead, ready to release without hesitation if his fingers even twitched. “Oh, calm down, lets all of you lower your weapons.”

Steve, eyes flashing to the many civilians in the center of the room, gave him a sharp look and a meaningful chin thrust. Clint didn’t budge, eyes hard and flint black, every muscle rigid. “Hawkeye,” he said, voice to low to travel across the room. “Lower it.”

“That’s the detonator,” Clint hissed through a clenched jaw. “I’m not moving.”

The man tutted disapprovingly, and motioned with his unoccupied hand toward the six AIM agents behind him. They each lifted their weapons, and directed them not at Steve or Clint, or Tony or Natasha, but the huddled, miserable looking civilians, who saw this and a muffled, low groan went up from them collectively, each flinching away from the aimed weapons. Clint shifted his aim, leveling the arrow at one, then another of the agents with their weapons raised at the civilians. Shaking his head, he brought it back to his original target.

“I would really hate for anything unfortunate to happen to all of these good people here. But if you don’t lower your weapons,” he said, a tight smile revealing a flash of white teeth directed at Clint and tension rising in his voice, something menacing flashing darkly in his eyes, “then they pay the price.”

Dammit. He, all of them, couldn’t keep weapons on all of them at once. If they started firing, people were going to die. Just a matter of how many. Gritting his teeth, Clint slowly, slowly lowered his aim and allowed slack back into the string. 

“Thank you.”

“So what’s the plan here,” Steve asked. “You obviously have something to say- say it.”

“Of course,” he said, moving his hands as he began talking, waving the detonator around in a way that made Clint flinch at each adjustment. “Glad you asked. Uh, basically, we’re going to walk out of here with what we came for, and you’re going to let us.”

He paused, as if expecting a ‘like hell we are’ or ‘why would we do that’ remark. The reason was more than obvious though.

He frowned like he was disappointed they weren’t playing along. “What, no questions? I expected, well, something.”

“Let me guess,” Steve proffered. “You want to take those crates of equipment you seem to have gathered up over there, and leave, and you’re about to say that if anyone tries to stop you, you press a button and this place becomes an over sized crater in the ground.”

“Oh, well done,” he mocked, laughing. “You do catch on quickly, don’t you. Except, there’s one problem with that. See, we’ll be needing a ride out of here, which you’ll provide.”

“We’ll see about bringing in a helicopter-”

“No, I don’t think so. You won’t be ‘bringing in’ anything. You’ll be so generous as to offer us your ride.”

A pause. “You want the Quinjet.” Steve sounded bitter, but level, and in control. He really didn’t like that sort of manipulation.

“Yes. Any objections?” He turned to look at each of them. “No? Okay then.”

“If we let you leave, there’s no stopping you from detonating it once you’re clear.” Tony interjected.

“Ah, but see, luckily for you, the reach of the transmitter just a little under the length of the blast radius- so unless I want to blow myself up and waste everything we’ve done to get here, I won’t be doing that.”

“Right, and we’ll just take your word on that,” Steve added, shifting his stance agitatedly. 

He sighed, seeming to be a little frustrated now. “No,” he rolled his eyes, “you can check that for yourself. One of you, just one, can go and take a look at the four devices. But no touching.”

Tony shifted as if to go forward, but Natasha held out an arm, stopping him. “Clint,” was all she said softly by way of explanation. 

He had already put away his drawn arrow and stepped forward, handing his bow off to Steve. He picked forward between the kneeling and sitting captives, offering sympathetic glances but not saying anything. His focus was on the nearest of the devices. And damn. These were something else. There were common elements he immediately recognized though: he couldn’t touch, so the smell- almonds- allowed him to identify the plastic as C-4, the detonators embedded in it were standard, the wiring board itself was nothing he’d ever seen before, but the transmitter- that was old school. So old, in fact, he was reasonably confident that the range was well below the blast radius. It may not even be effective if separated this far underground. Still, he wouldn’t be willing to risk it. He moved on to the next, then the third, and finally the fourth. All the same. Good.

As he examined their components, he was also racking his mind for any way to disable them. He was confused, became it seemed like all you had to do was remove the detonators- the little metal rods that sparked when activated- that were buried in the bricks of C-4. But there, on the last one- aww, mercury trigger, no. He couldn’t even nudge the detonators, much less pull them out- not if he wanted to avoid being vaporized. The slightest motion would tilt the mercury vessel at the base of the detonator, and it would trigger it. That’s not fair. 

Thus, Clint was at a loss as to how to get around the massive, very deadly elephant in the room. 

Retreating to Steve’s side again, he took back his bow and gave a curt, affirmative nod. Stopping with his back to the AIM agents for a moment, he said quietly, “Weak transceiver range- he’s not lying there. Mercury triggers- I can’t remove the detonators, and the electronics are way above my pay grade. I can’t do shit about ‘em.”

“Then we do what we have to- get these people out safe.” Clint nodded, and stepped back to where he stood previously, gripping his bow tightly as unease flicked through his chest.

“Satisfied?” the AIM officer asked. 

“Yeah,” Steve replied. “You get you you want, we get what we want.”

“So glad we could come to an agreement.”

Steve continued, outlying their ‘agreement’ in detail. “We radio up, have SHIELD stand down. You leave, take the Quinjet. Stark, have Jarvis unlock the flight controls. Once you’re gone, we can trust these won’t detonate.”

“Precisely,” he purred contentedly. “Make the arrangements.”

Clint handed Steve the SHIELD radio he had clipped to his belt, and with some very serious, rather harsh words, Steve had conveyed the dire nature of the situation to Sousa. She was not a fan of it, needless to say, but the prospect of the entire facility and everyone in or around it blowing up didn’t strike her fancy either. She finally agreed to pull all of her men and women out and clear the area, and confirmed that they wouldn’t try to stop them from leaving. Meanwhile, Natasha filled Banner and Thor in over the comms, and Stark, as much as it pained him, had Jarvis remove all of the anti-hijacking precautions on the Quinjet. It wasn’t worth people’s lives.

Everything set, Sousa having radioed back when the building was clear, they had just to put it in motion.

His men gathering the black crates filled with looted equipment and various technologies, current Avengers’ Enemy No. 1 directed them toward the door. Halfway across the room though, he stopped suddenly. “Oh, wait, one more thing. A little incentive for you to not follow after as as soon as well leave…” He spun quickly, grabbing two of the hostages, a bearded man in a white lab coat in his 50’s and a young woman, and pulled him upright viciously. “We see you, SHIELD, anyone following us- so much as a single sign you’ve not left us be- their blood is on your hands,” he hissed, grinning maniacally.

Steve started in response, saying, “You’re not taking them with you- that isn’t what we agreed to-” 

“It is now. Don’t like it? Oh, looks like you don’t have a choice here, Captain.” He spat the last word like it was poisonous. “Besides, if you behave, we’ll drop them off somewhere they’ll be found quickly enough.”

And they didn’t. Steve clenched his jaw, knuckles tightening, but they were all forced to stand down. They didn’t have a choice but to let the six AIM agents go by, carrying the crates, and to watch as Mr. bag of dicks pushed the two hostages in front of him, a gun appearing in his free hand which he used to prod them forward.

Then they were gone. Once they had begun up the stairs, the four of them rushed to evacuate the hundred civilians that had been, up to this point, quietly sitting in terror and listening, and watching. They untied those that were bound, lent a shoulder to the unstable, and herded them forward. When Thor reported that the seven AIM agents and the two civilians had boarded their Quinjet and taken off, they rushed to get them out- though being very careful to keep everyone calm to avoid a stampede.

Clint hated every bit of it. They all did. But he felt an almost blinding, irrational anger building up in his chest, suffocating every other thought and emotion. He wanted to kill that guy, to hurt him, badly. And that wasn’t something Clint felt often. But he deserved it. They had been played completely. Robbed of whatever control over the situation they had coming into it. It tasted bitter. He hated it, goddammit. He wanted to hit something.

But no. Then there was the aftermath. Facing Sousa, who now, with SHIELD backup having arrived just before the situation began to deteriorate, had it in her head that if they had followed her plan, her orders, from the beginning, then they wouldn’t be in this mess. They were solely accountable, she said. Sure. Because who else do you blame when a crappy situation gets worse if not the people who were sent in on a desperate bid to salvage it. 

They had tried to track down the Quinjet immediately, but the GPS signal was gone completely, and they couldn’t pick it up on any radar. They had probably found a way to put the stealth technology to use- they should have had Jarvis lock down all nonessential flight functions. All Clint could hope was that his previous tampering when he had Stark cut the backup lines would have some serious side effects and they would crash and burn. He wouldn’t be so lucky though.

Clint stopped paying attention to what everyone was saying, where they were moving, going, doing. He didn’t care. He was over this whole shit storm of a scenario. He found himself sitting outside in the open trunk of one of SHIELD’s convoy of SUVs. Backup had brought MMBs, mobile med-bays, but with the overflow of civilians and SHIELD agents, they were outsourcing space. Clint was mostly fine anyway. He didn’t care that each ragged breath hurt, that his throat was raw and bleeding. He could manage the pain just fine. It was something to focus on anyway.

At some point, he became aware of Natasha sitting next to him, her legs swinging over the side of the SUV’s open back right there with him. She didn’t say anything. Neither of them did. He couldn’t even bring himself to look at her. Instead, his too hot, smoke irritated eyes stared blankly at a patch of concrete, tracing the porous edges and hairline cracks until he had stopped thinking about anything else. He didn’t want her to leave though. And she didn’t.

Steve and Tony sat besides each other on the asphalt, leaning against side of the SUV Clint and Natasha were sitting in the back of. Thor and Banner had also joined them, and for their sakes, they went through the excruciating details once more. They didn’t say anything after that.

Suddenly though, Bruce spoke up. “What did they take?”

“Not sure,” Steve answered. “Lab equipment.” Tony nodded, and began rattling off a list of the various technology he had seen them take, and that he speculated they took.

Bruce nodded, frowning. “All of that is very expensive- no doubt- but it isn’t specific to this research facility. I’ve been listening to SHIELD’s questioning of all the employees. They’re in biomechanical and chemical engineering fields- I don’t see how they would have anything so rare, or even classified, that AIM needs this badly.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Why here?”

Tony nodded. “That’s true. The question’s what does this place have- or what did it have- that others don’t. AIM didn’t target this facility randomly. Obviously, a lot planning went into this- they were planning to use the explosives to leverage their way out from the beginning.”

Steve considered that for a moment. Suddenly, he became aware of Natasha when she spoke up, standing next to the back of the SUV where she and Clint had been sitting silently. “Who did they take.”

“What?” Bruce asked, not following her train of thought.

“The hostages they took. If they were planning to get out this way from the beginning, do you really think they would just grab two random hostages at the last second?”

“No,” Steve said. He rose quickly to his feet. “No, they wouldn’t. Bruce, what exactly do they do here in this facility?”

“Biomechanical and chemical engineering, research and development. My understanding is that they work with industrial sciences and varied applications to and interconnections with biological species- it very vague, but these people haven’t been telling SHIELD the specifics. It’s all highly classified.”

“So,” Tony said, “theoretically, if you were to create a piece of technology that dealt with the manufacturing and dispersal of a super-virus…”

As the reality of the situation sunk in, they felt even more numb, if that was possible. 

Steve broke the heavy silence first. “We need to know exactly who they took.”

They scattered, asking SHIELD agents and civilian employees alike until it was Bruce who got an answer. They reconvened. “Dr. Andrew Bukowski, head of the R&D division of biomechanical engineering and leading specialist in non-cyclic genetic replication and application, and they took an intern, a PhD. student in chemical engineering, Brianna Bukowski, who yes, also happens to be his daughter.”

“I think it’s safe to say they wanted Dr. Bukowski, and they took his daughter to keep leverage over him. More redirection for us, like taking the equipment, and they have everything they need to make him do whatever they want,” Natasha added, still standing next to Clint, who was being uncharacteristically silent.

“Yeah, no shit,” Steve said bitterly, frustration pouring out in his tone, cursing. “Goddammit. Fuck, goddammit.”

No one said it, but it was on all of their minds. They messed up. AIM had come in, killed SHIELD agents, taken civilians hostage, and no matter how they fought their way through AIM’s man, it didn’t matter. In the end, they had planned for that. Expected it. And AIM walked out with everything they needed because of it. 

Damn it.


	6. masked vigilantism is the best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint runs away from his problems only to find out he should probably fix them  
> A good bro plays therapist  
> Clint and Natasha aren't good at words, but are good at finding creative ways to avoid using them :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *intro to sexy times alert* but nothing really idk it just happened

The train car rumbled beneath him, shaking and rattling to an almost rhythmic tune tune as it raced through the subway tunnels. It was early evening; the subway was busy, but not terribly uncomfortably so. People of every manner, every class and creed, standing at the platforms, gliding up and down escalators, boarding and unboarding, walking and jogging and standing and sitting, consumed in books and phones, and one grandmotherly old lady sitting across from him knitting a purple scarf. Or at least, he thought it was a scarf; it didn’t look quite finished yet.

He let the steady hum of noise and motion wash over him. He had been for the past… what time was it exactly? He checked his phone for the hour. Quarter till five. He had been for almost the past hour. Evening rush hour would be picking up any minute now, even though it was a Saturday (that’s New York for you: the city that never takes a goddamn break). He frowned in distaste at his phone screen, which so helpfully informed him of not just the time, but that he had three missed calls and twelve unread messages, contacts from Hill, Steve, and Natasha. Nat… she was without a doubt worried about him, but that was nothing new. He turned his phone off and shoved it into his pocket.

After the medics on sight had had their way with him and were satisfied, and by no will of his own, might he add (Steve and Natasha had insisted, his partner going so far as to threaten bodily harm, which would have been sort of contrary to the point of letting the docs take a look at him, wouldn’t it?), they had been picked up by a SHIELD carrier convoy and flown back to SHIELD HQ in New York City for full debrief, write ups, and a good deal of scolding. Fury himself- who had been in town for more important things than scolding them (if he flew in to scowl and yell at them every time something bad happened, he would never leave)- showed up to debrief. Apparently, whatever AIM was up to was quickly becoming a top priority for the brass, but to be honest, the higher ups always had a seriously skewed sense of priority, which explained why it hadn’t been one earlier. So, for it to be one now… well, they all knew it wasn’t good, priority or not.

For hours they they had been debriefed, lectured, questioned, divided and interrogated, brought back together, and finally released, all according to procedure. There was bureaucratic hurdle after hurdle. Nothing new there, but it was exhausting. Clint hadn’t wanted anything to do with it. He hadn’t found a way to escape it, locked away in HQ as they were, so sure, he suffered through it, but he was perhaps the most spiteful, uncooperative, and obnoxious version of himself he could be- and that was when he was actually speaking. The majority of the time he slouched in his chair and brooded quietly, glowering at the table in front of him. 

Was it probably unjustified and definitely not helpful for the SHIELD case workers- including Hill- who were assigned to this case, Operation Breakwater, a full fledged SHIELD investigation backed up by the Avengers? Yep. Did he really care though? Nope. He had been tired, hungry, sore, in a mildly annoying amount of pain, in need of a shower, and he was pissed off. With AIM, with Sousa and SHIELD, with the whole situation, with himself. So when they were finally released and sent back to the tower- bonus, they were officially ‘on call’ as SHIELD put all of its resources into finding a lead, and they had to be at the tower and ready to go whenever those efforts may come to fruition- he put his gear away, cleaned up, ate with the team in silence when the food they’d ordered from their usual Chinese place showed up, and then did exactly what he wasn’t supposed to do and slipped away.

Would he come back? Yes, obviously. They had unfinished business with AIM, and there was still a very real, more viable than ever threat of a massive bioterror attack out there. But he had things he had to take care of.

So now, sitting on the half full train care as it screeched through the subway tunnels beneath the city streets, he was cold, still in an uncomfortable though manageable amount of pain, and his limbs still heavy with exhaustion. It was just a bad day.

There were maybe two dozen people in the train car with him at the moment. Each going their own way, some with backpacks or luggage of one sort or another, others with briefcases, and one basket full of varying shades of purple yarn, knitting needles, and what Clint thought looked to be an old, worn stuffed animal in the likeness of a cat. She seemed terribly out of place; a nice old lady sitting there alone, bundled up in her coat and hat and gloves- the latter two she seemed to have made herself- her stuffed cat looking forlorn atop a pile of carefully wrapped yarn in her little wicker basket. She looked happy enough though, humming some quiet, dry tune to herself as she clacked away with her needles. And as dozens and dozens of civilians moved around him at every stop, she and him seemed to be the only two stationary, stable points of focus there. 

He watched unobtrusively as she made progress, strands of yarn becoming woven material. It was almost hypnotic as he watched the pattern the needles made, the yarn following, and pushed everything else out of his mind and actually managed to forget about it for a few minutes. And almost missed his stop because of it. Great, so what he was learning was that he should take up knitting. Maybe discuss that in therapy. Wouldn’t his shrink be just thrilled, taking up a calming, non-violent, non-work related hobby like that. He rolled his eyes to accompany the internal sarcastic monologue he had going. 

Slipping through the closing doors of the train car, he wound through the crowd and made for the surface, pulling up the hood of the sweatshirt he wore beneath his coarse, heavy, black unmarked SHIELD tactical coat- the only one he had at the tower- shoving his hands in his pockets, and bowing his head against the frigid, piercing wind that bit through his clothing as it was directed howling into the mouth of the subway. 

That storm that had been hanging heavily overhead when they’d set out that morning had hit while they were gone. The first snow of the winter. It wasn’t a gentle powdering of white that glimmered across rooftops though. It was nasty and brutal. Wet, grey slush and black ice layered the sidewalk and streets. Off balance by the limited weight he was putting on his twisted- and since wrapped- ankle, and pushing through the dense crowd of pedestrians, the ice was not a welcome obstacle. Traffic was at a near standstill, car horns blaring, people yelling, and sirens in the near distance. The wind cut like a knife, whipping across the streets as the buildings around them funneled the cold, dry assault. Snow was still falling lightly, the flakes picked up by the gale and hitting moving bodies like shrapnel, burning every bit of exposed skin and forcing everyone to proceed with heads bowed, shoulders hunched, and eyes squinted against the onslaught. 

By time Clint reached his building, as he dug for his keys in his jean pocket, his hands were so numb and uncooperative it took a solid minute just to retrieve them and get them in the lock. Once inside the empty lobby, pushing the door closed hard against the force of the intruding wind, he paused, tearing off his coat to allow the so very welcome heat to soak in. He sighed heavily, leaning his shoulders back against the door as he paused for just a moment to appreciate the warmth. He was so incredibly thankful that, for one, the furnace had not decided to give out like it did every winter since he’d come into ownership of the place, and probably since before he’d owned it too. (The tracksuit wearing Russian Draculas probably didn’t put spending time or money on the maintenance of the building for the sake of the residents very high up on their to-do list. Jerks. 

He took care to dry his boots as best he could on the already damp doormat before moving through the lobby and down the hallway toward the staircase. Sure, there was an elevator, but it was just as old as the building- which was, needless to say, very old- and just about as reliable as the furnace. He didn’t encounter anyone on his way, which wasn’t really anything to be surprised about. Anyone with with half a brain knew leaving home today, with the weather and the traffic as it was, would be very ill advised. He would have liked nothing more than to screw everything else, go straight to his apartment, and head back to bed- today sucked- but no, not yet.

Up the stairs, down the hallway, one door down on the left. Ugh, he really should have called. He should have been able to find the time to give her a heads up that he would be late, that things came up and got out of hand, but poker night turned into Saturday morning which turned into Avengers call which turned into big shit storm which turned into hours of debrief and now, fucking finally, he was home. Yeah, really poor etiquette for asking someone to watch your dog for the night and then not coming to pick him up or even contacting them about the forced change of schedule until evening the next day. Ugh. He really should have called.

He knocked on Simone’s door and was immediately met with the sound of barking and paws scrambling across hardwood floors, the sound of Lucky running through the inside of the apartment toward the door. 

There was muffled laughter inside, a child’s voice scolding the dog, and when the door opened, Simone’s smiling face greeted him. “Clint, are you okay?” she asked, motherly instinct or something like it coming out at the sight of his somewhat battered appearance. “I was worried when you didn’t come by.” 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Fine. Look, I’m really, really sorry- I know I asked you to watch Lucky, to do me a favor, and I was supposed to come get him this morning because I’d be late getting back last night but then stuff came up that I couldn’t avoid-” he was rambling, he knew it, but his mouth had decided to start running and his brain wasn’t working fast enough to stop it- “and we ran into some trouble and the building was on fire and then I got hauled in to work to sort it and I tried to get out earlier I really did bu-” 

“Whoa, whoa Clint slow down. What? The building-” she paused, shaking her head, a sad sort of sympathetic smile on her face and warmth behind her eyes. “You know what, I don’t even need to know. It’s alright though, really. Don’t worry about it.”

“No- are you sure? I hope he wasn’t trouble-”

“Clint, I’m sure. The kids love having Lucky over. And besides, them getting to play with Lucky here and there helps me convince ‘em we don’t need a dog. Really, you’re doing me a favor. Besides, we owe you enough as it is.” 

The door opened farther and a gap toothed grinning toddler face smeared with what looked like peanut butter was looking up at him. He squealed excitedly, sticky hands flying up and grabbing at the hem of Simone’s shirt. Lucky was right there behind him, and rather than catapulting himself at Clint like the dog usually would, he trotted over the the small child and began licking his face clean of peanut butter, much to the little boy’s delight. 

“Aww, Lucky, no,” Clint chided and knelt down, pulling Lucky away gently by the collar. He only needed a little convincing, and then he was practically climbing Clint, wagging tail a blur, paws scrabbling for purchase on Clint’s shoulders, trying to lick at his face while Clint pulled his own head back and turned away while he tried to block Lucky’s advances his hands in front of him as best he could. At this, the child was jumping up and down, laughing and squealing and Clint couldn’t help but smile. 

Simone disappeared for a brief second while Clint got Lucky’s writhing, wriggling body under control, and returned with the leash and bag of dog food Clint had dropped Lucky off with the night before, handing them back. Clint stood, taking them off her hands and thanked her and apologized once more. The little boy- Henry, his name was Henry, Clint recalled- said goodbye to Lucky, who bid him farewell with another bout of gross wet licks, but he didn’t seem to mind. Clint stooped to click the leash on Lucky, more a habit than anything else, and called him away. One last thing. He reached behind him for his back pocket, retrieving his wallet. He was stopped immediately and none too gently in his tracks

“Clint Barton, don’t you dare. If you think you’re gonna pay me for watching Lucky, you are mistaken,” Simone said sternly, hands on hips, giving him a challenging look. 

“But-” he started, confused.

“No. Not only did we not mind taking care of Lucky, but even if we did, this doesn’t begin to make us even. We owe you too much already-”

“What? No-”

“Oh yes we do. Everyone in this place does. Not only did you help us keep our homes, but you drove the Russian mafia out of the neighborhood, and you still deal with them when they come back to make trouble. You leave the rent on these apartments half what they rightfully should be. And then, how many times have you just ‘forgotten’ about collecting rent from one of us when they’ve hit on rough times? Like when Grills lost his job a while back? Hell, most the time we’ve got to hunt you down or you’d never collect it at all. So no, don’t you even try it.”

Clint may or may not have just stared stupidly, a little more than a little taken aback at the stream of words that just came out of nowhere. He blinked a few time, mouth working but for maybe once in his life he was rendered just a little bit speechless. Simone didn’t budge though, didn’t even waver, just stood there in the doorway, hands on hips and a ‘what are you gonna do about it’ kind of look on her face. Finally though, he managed to get out an “Uh, okay?” and she smiled pleasantly, said goodbye and wished him to be careful out there, and closed the door gently as she ushered Henry inside.

Clint forgot for a moment that he needed to move. He looked down at Lucky, who was sitting against his leg, tongue lolling, ears flopped to the side, and head titled back to look up at Clint. He whined, cocking his head to the side, dark expressive eyes giving him the look. “Don’t you look at me like that. This is Kate’s fault. Not mine. She should have been here to watch you.” He sighed, rolling his eyes as he started walking back toward the stairs, Lucky trotting along obediently at his side. She just had to take a random, out of nowhere, off the cuff, impromptu trip to the West coast. Why? She never said. Just told him she was taking a trip, and when he asked about it, she gave a smug grin and a little shrug and walked away. Because that’s what friends do, apparently. She’d left Thursday night and she’d said she was at least going to be gone for the weekend but probably longer and that was that. Awesome, right? “I mean come on, what’s so special about the West coast anyway? And if you’re gonna go, why this time of year? It’s almost Christmas, for Pete’s sake.” 

He looked down at Lucky again. Unfortunately, Lucky didn’t seem to have anything to add or to say about that. He just kept hopping up the stairs. Clint sighed again, feeling tired and sore and very, very done with the day all over again. “Ugh, she better not miss Christmas.”

He flung the door to his apartment shut behind him. Unclipping Lucky from his leash, he tossed it and the bag of leftover food onto the kitchen counter top and made for the coffee maker. He pulled down the grounds and filters from the cabinet and flipped the top up, but hesitated, and slowly set them back in the cabinet where they belonged. There was already a fresh filter and measured scoop of grounds in there, and with plenty of water, the button only needed to be pressed. He hadn’t done that. He never did that, no matter how nice it was to be able to walk in and have only the press of a button between him and a fresh pot of coffee. No, Natasha did that.

Natasha always did that. Whenever she was there and they made coffee. She was there last night. Before they left for poker night at the tower. Before everything went to hell. The last time they’d talked and it meant something. And aw fuck him. It felt like something dropped like a rock inside him. Suddenly he didn’t want coffee anymore. He remembered his phone and the calls and text messages that had been hers. He remembered giving everyone, giving her the cold shoulder ever since after AIM and Pennsylvania. He remembered who she had hovered by his side afterwards, but he didn’t remember ever saying anything to her, ever even acknowledging her being there. He didn’t even ask her what happened to her when they’d been separated. He didn’t even ask if she was okay. He hadn’t said a single damn thing. Aw, fuck him. 

What kind of fucking asshole was he? He slammed the lid of the coffee maker down, starling Lucky. He spun to look at the dog. “What kind of fucking asshole am I?” Again, unfortunately- or perhaps fortunately- Lucky didn’t have anything to say about that. He didn’t want coffee anymore. He wanted to go find Natasha. ASAP. So she could yell at him and maybe kick his ass but at least yell at him because even that would be better than sitting alone in his apartment with Lucky and bingeing on Dog Cops and pizza. Where the fuck was Kate when he needed someone to smack him in the face and say he was being an asshole. That was her job. He couldn’t be expected to do it himself.

There was still one problem though. What the hell was he supposed to do with the damn dog? 

He couldn’t take Lucky to the tower with him; no, the wretched animal needed constant supervision or else no doubt he’d end up chewing on the leg of some really expensive furniture, and from the story Natasha had relayed a few weeks ago, Stark didn’t appreciate people- or dogs- killing his furniture. And Kate, Kate was out of town, which for more reasons than one he regretted. He couldn’t leave Lucky with anyone here- well, because Simone was always the one he left him with for emergencies, i.e. when Kate was not available, and he’d just retrieved him from Simone and he felt way too incredibly awkward about that already so social expectations of human interaction and his tattered ego would not allow him to do that. And that was just about everyone so the last option would be a kennel or something but hell no he was not leaving Lucky behind with some random strangers for god knows how long right now and also any kennel in this goddamned city on short notice would be way, way, way too expensive so his love for this troublesome mutt and his bank account wouldn’t let him do that. 

Think think think. “Where can you leave a dog in this city for not too much money and where you’ll know it’ll still be there when you come back?” Lucky ignored him in favor of turning in circles and biting his tail. Wow. Real intelligent one that is. “Thanks. So helpful.”

Okay, who owed him a favor? Who could he owe one more favor to? Who did he even know in this city that was A.) kind enough, B.) smart enough, and most importantly C.) on good enough standing with him to look after one mangy mutt for a while?

He was just about considering the possibility of taking Lucky to SHIELD HQ and finding some first year recruits or probies that he could either intimidate or lie and spin some falsities to in order to get them to take care of Lucky for a bit- get them to think it was some test, or maybe that he was Fury’s dog, or something- when he recalled one buddy ‘ol pal ‘ol friend of his in the city he could maybe just maybe sweet talk into watching the dog for a bit. Yep, nothing could go wrong.

He turned on his phone, heart panging in his chest at the number of unanswered and unread calls and texts from Natasha, who seemed to have given up in contacting him 45 minutes ago. No, he would take care of that in person. Not over the phone. It had to wait.

He scrolled through his contacts, most of which were under false names or were simple a random assortment of emojis that, to him, meant someone in particular (either way, it was a matter of precaution). He found the right one, and, debating for a moment how to properly convey the fine details and urgency of his situation, sent a quick text message. 

‘SOS. 911 Emergency. Pls help, in trouble. SO much trouble- life/death. Need favor. Coming to your place.’

Yep, that should do. Short and sweet, to the point. Clint grabbed Lucky’s leash and enough of his food to last a week at least- better safe than sorry- and a few other things. He then ran to his bedroom, grabbed a duffel bag, and stuffed as much clothes and shit in there as he could fit. Then, he was throwing on his coat and grabbing his keys, arms full, and dog on his heels, and he was headed for his car.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

He left his bag in the trunk and his car- a muted grey colored 2012 Chevrolet Camaro (which yes, looked too similar to Natasha’s car for his liking, but no, he’d had his first)- and put down the passenger seat to let Lucky jump out. He took a second, kneeling down next to Lucky, and reached back into the glove compartment of his car, feeling around for the thin material he was looking for. When his hand closed around it, he yanked it free. A service dog vest: light polyester material, bright red, bold words clearly written across the sides. The ultimate all entrance pass. Why? Well, he got the vest because Lucky’s sort of weird in a way that if he knows someone, he’s as friendly as they come, but if not, sometimes he really doesn’t like people touching him. Plus, he did have hearing aids that were fairly obvious and all, so no one he’d ever encountered while Lucky was wearing the vest had raised any questions about it. 

Now, he’d met Matt a few time, so he wasn’t worried about Lucky not liking the guy, but he did recall bitching to Murdock at one point about his apartment being ‘pet free’, and how as his own landlord, he didn’t have to abide by stupid ass rules like that. What the hell kind of cold hearted person doesn’t like dogs? Or any pets for that matter. Anyway, he snapped the vest into place and grabbed Lucky’s bag.

Leash attached to dog in one hand, bag of food and assorted dog things- his tennis balls, for instance, dog couldn’t go anywhere without his tennis balls- in the other, he was tripping over ice and around pedestrians to get to the few steps that led to the door of the apartment building he was after. 

Wow. Hell’s Kitchen was just lovely this time of year… No, that was sarcasm. Bed-Stuy was way better. At least he only had to deal with the Russian tracksuit wearing, ‘bro’ saying, uzi bearing mafia, while his buddy Matt had to deal with all kinds of uncool shit going down in such a tiny portion of the city. Seriously, from Asian drug empires to Russian gangsters who moonlighted as taxi drivers to creepy business moguls who somehow connected them all, this unfortunate faction of the city had a rough go of it. Luckily it wasn’t him who had to deal with it though- most the time.

As he located and jabbed the correct buzzer under the name ‘Murdock’, he shuffled the bag to his leash bearing arm and dug his phone out, seeing multiple texts from Matt, most to the tune of ‘what the fuck did you do’ and ‘are you dying’, but he wasn’t going to bother answering them now. The door clicked open, and he hustled Lucky inside. The door swung shut behind him.

As his luck would have it, he was only a few steps inside when his hearing went all funny. There was a low beep, then some static-y white noise, then his aids blinked out completely. Damn it, of course the batteries had to go and die on him now. Fuck it. He removed them a little too harshly and shoved them into his coat pocket. Useless. Whatever, he would get by.

He finally managed to toss the bag over his shoulder, giving himself a free hand, Lucky still pulling on the leash in the other. Up the stairs, at the mouth of the hallway, just in front of Matt’s door, he quite nearly ran smack into a fella who was also standing outside Matt’s door, hand raised to knock. Clint’s mind, sound deprived, immediately jumped into hyper-observant mode. Blonde, longish lanky hair, blue eyes, 5’9”, average build- not athletic, button up, suit jacket and slacks that didn’t fit quite right, scuffed and well worn black dress shoes- a professional, but apparently not a very well off or high up one- young face, late twenties maybe, early thirties probably. Assessment? Civilian. Not a threat. 

And, he had said something. Damn it. And Clint was currently mostly deaf and he hadn’t been paying attention so he wasn’t looking and hadn’t read what he was saying. And now he was staring kinda dumb-like at the guy, who looked simultaneously confused and weirded out by Clint’s blank stare and lack of response. 

And Clint panicked. Well, he was already in a sort of panicked state over everything, but this just added to it. He faltered, didn’t know what to do, thoughts scrambled, a voice in the back of his head unhelpfully telling him a random civilian was trying to interact with him and he should do something- maybe run, not attack, that wouldn’t be good- but something.

Thankfully though, the guy glanced down at Lucky, service vest and all who was sitting between them, tail thumping happily, and Clint, in his panic, just went with it. He shook his head and signed something frantically, he didn’t even know what, and kind off sloppily too, Lucky’s leash on one wrist and the bag sliding down to his elbow on the other arm. Civilian dude took a marginal step back not really intentionally, hands kind of going up placatingly, understanding flashing across his face and in his body language. Then he was mumbling something, not really for Clint’s benefit, but the guy, who looked a little flustered and apologetic now, probably wasn’t really meaning to communicate anything to him anyway.

Clint was definitely paying attention this time though, and even mumbled, he still got the jist of it- an awkward apology- and the guy excused himself from the entirely regrettable encounter. What was even worse though, was that this guy didn’t leave. He was apparently also going to Matt’s apartment, because now the both of them were standing outside the door, and Clint wanted nothing more than to run away, but he couldn’t, and he didn’t know what to do, and he felt like he might implode in those fragile milliseconds that burned themselves into his brain and seemed to stretch on for hours. 

Clint was more thankful than he could ever recall when the door opened- no one having even knocked- to reveal one Matthew Murdock. He looked- well, turned his head, he was still technically blind after all- between this guy and Clint, a small frown tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“Clint,” he nodded in his direction, and then turned to the other guy, saying, “Foggy.” Or at least that’s what Clint thought he said, but he might have been wrong because was that even a name?

This ‘Foggy’ guy turned, surprise written on his face, to glance at Clint again before before looking back at Matt, and from his side profile, Clint couldn’t make out much of anything he said, which was annoying. He internally cursed his aids and batteries and himself for forgetting to take care of it before it became a problem.

But then Matt was responding, and that he could read. “This is Clint. He’s deaf, mostly, but for some reason isn’t wearing his hearing aids. He can read your lips though, if you face him. That’s Lucky, who isn’t a real service dog. And, I think you surprised him is all- he’s not mute, just pretends to be as a default so he doesn’t have to interact with people.”

“Aw, fuck you, Murdock,” Clint complained, scowling. 

“See, he speaks,” Matt said with a smile. 

Clint shook his head. He was done with whatever this was. He still had his own problems to attend to and he was trying to be quick about it, so he promptly ignored whatever else was being said and pushed past Matt through the doorway into his apartment, Lucky trotting after him. He flicked on the lights as he went, which had been turned off, Matt not really needing them and all, and flopped down onto his couch, dropping the bag beside him and clasping his head in his hands, refusing to acknowledge anyone, and scrunching his eyes closed tight. Lucky plopped down in front of him, still on leash, and rested his head on his knee. 

In a moment, he felt the couch shift to the side of him as someone sat next to him, and he felt a hand on his shoulder, gentle yet insistent. He turned his head to the side and opened his eyes. Matt gave him a look, raising an eyebrow, a question there. “Are you alright?” he asked, concern, that one emotion Clint saw on almost every single face he interacted with, staring back at him. Across from the couch where they sat, the other guy was standing, arms crossed, looking confused as hell.

“No,” he replied, trying to keep his volume in check but not really sure if he was succeeding. “Today sucks. I need a favor. And who’s this guy?” He glanced back at Foggy, a scowl drawing across his face. Other guy didn’t look super pleased either.

“Foggy Nelson,” Matt replied, and he carefully signed out the letters as he did, the alphabet being the full extent of his proficiency in ASL. But he was blind and all, so Clint wouldn’t hold that against him. “My colleague.”

“Oh, got it. Nelson and Murdock- right.”

Matt looked back at Foggy, who seemed to be about to say something, but beat him to it. “For everyone’s sake… Clint, Foggy Nelson. Foggy, Clint Barton, and Lucky. The both of you,” he gave them each a pointed- well, as pointed as he could- look, “know about my extracurricular-”

Clint’s eyes were drawn back to Foggy when he lifted his hands and dropped them in exasperation, so many things he wanted to say written across his face. “What the fuck, Matt? Who the hell is this guy? What, you just tell that kind of thing to everybody nowadays? Hi, Matt Murdock, attorney at law by day, masked vigilante that likes to get the crap beat of of himself by night.”

“But masked vigilantism is the best.”

“Clint, shut up. Foggy, calm down. It’s not like that-”

“No? Then what is it like? Cause I still don’t even know who this guy is, how it is you met, or why he’s here.”

Matt paused, and returned his sightless gaze in Clint’s direction. “How much can I tell him?” And that was nice of him, it not really being his shit to tell, but it’s not like Clint was hiding or anything. Sure, SHIELD had tried to keep his picture out of public circulation for a while, but the media was relentless, so who he was, well, that was pretty much out there. And going from not existing on any official documents to being recognized as a ‘superhero’ at a random Starbucks by a ten year old was a major life adjustment, FYI. The only thing that was still confidential was his SHIELD file. Nothing was sacred anymore.

“I appreciate it man, but by this point you could pretty much google me and find out everything there is to know.” Clint glanced back at Foggy, and was startled when he actually whipped out his phone and no doubt was typing his name into google. “Aw, man, I didn’t mean actually google me. That’s fuckin’ weird.”

“Well, you’re the one who said it,” Matt chided.

“Since when does anyone listen to me?”

“Good point.”

“Wait,” Foggy blurted out. “Fuck, what? What the hell? You-” Clint decided it would be less awkward to just duck his head and let the two of them work it out for a minute. He was actually thankful for his deafness at times like these, when he didn’t have to listen to the shit that goes on around him. Head in hands, elbows braced on his knees, he stared at Lucky laying across his feet and counted to sixty slowly in his head before looking up.

“-still doesn’t explain how you two met,” Foggy was saying.

“I pulled him out of a dumpster,” Clint cut in.

“Only because you were in that dumpster first,” Matt shot back, grinning. “He’d fallen off the roof.”

“Jumped,” Clint corrected. “Intentionally. Because I was being chased across rooftops by Czech assassins and needed a quick way down, and a place to hide. Dumpsters work very well for that, apparently.”

“Sure, whatever helps your bruised ego.”

“Fuck you, Murdock,” Clint said for the second time.

“Are you two even serious right now?” Foggy shook his head, a mixture of disbelief and a look that screamed ‘you’ve gotta be kidding me’ flashing across his features.

“Unfortunately,” Matt replied, then added, “Foggy, I know you came to discuss the Estevez case, but Clint came here for something and I got the sense that it was urgent. Can we table it for later this evening, unless there’s something, and it needs to wait for tomorrow…” he paused, looking questioningly at Clint.

“Nah, nothing like that man. It’s just, ugh. Fuck. Черт возьми,” he swore, well versed in Russian swear words- which was actually very helpful when dealing with the tracksuit mafia- thanks to Natasha. 

“Okay, yeah, that’s fine,” Foggy said, and from his softening body language, Clint got the feeling he was shifting from being rather affronted to taking it all in stride. “Do you want me to go? I can go.”

Matt looked at Clint, who just flopped back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. Was he being more than a little melodramatic? Sure. But in his defense, he’d had a really shitty day, and he was worried senseless over his fuck ups just a little bit, and he was just a little beyond caring, even if it was probably rude to drop his problems all over Matt’s life. But hey, what were friends for, right?

Matt looked back at Foggy, sympathetic to Clint’s case and apologetic to Foggy’s. “I’m sorry Foggy.”

“No, it’s fine. Really. Like, go be a superhero and stuff, with, other superheros, I guess. But seriously? You’re pals with one of the Avengers and you don’t tell me? That, I’m a little pissed about.”

“I’ll buy you a beer later and tell you whatever you want to know,” Matt compromised.

“I’m holding you to that. And it won’t be one of Josie’s brews either- I want the real, genuine thing.”

“It’s a deal,” he promised with a fond smile, and watched without looking as Foggy left, the door thudding gently behind him.

He clicked his fingers in front of Clint’s face, getting his attention. “Your message made it sound like you were dying.”

“Well I might be,” Clint retorted.

Matt paused, eyes drifting away as he was either thinking hard, or doing his super weird, yet super invasive thing. It turned out to be the latter. “You’re hurt.”

“Not really.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Only a little bruised, a few scrapes, there was something of a fire so I’ve got a burn or two, and I twisted my ankle, but really, all of that’s nothin’ compared to the usual.”

“Is your shoulder okay?”

Clint winced, concerned suddenly. “I dunno, is it? I think so.”

“Hm, probably. You’ve been holding it oddly.”

“Well, I think I tweaked something, but I just don’t wanna risk that kinda thing, ya know?”

“Yeah, I get it.” A pause. “There was ‘something of a fire’, huh?”

“Not my fault.”

“Does it hurt when you breathe? It sounds like it does.”

“Aw, fuck off man. Sure, it burns a little bit, but I’m telling you, I’m fine. I can handle myself, unlike your sorry ass. But that’s not why I’m here.”

He sighed, rubbing his temples. “You want to tell me what happened?”

“Man, so many things are so fucked up, and it’s not even all my fault. My quota for the week is more than met. Seriously,” he shook his head, very done with everything. “And I could really use a favor because I need time to sort some things out.”

“Did you come here for therapy? I’m not sure I’m qualified.”

“That’s the last thing I want actually,” Clint said, thinking back to actual therapy. “You can just recognize that my life is train wreck and I am in need of assistance and then we can move on.”

“Okay. It’s a train wreck. Do you want a beer? I feel like this might go over better with a beer. Or six.”

“You know, you’re absolutely right. But I’ve got places to be and things to do best done sober, so unfortunately, no.”

He nodded, humming in agreement. “Okay then. What do you need.”

“You’re actually going to hate me.”

“Well I’ve put up with you for this long, so I doubt that. Plus, given what a liability you are, I’m still banking on you needed an attorney on short notice at some point, and you have access to some deep pockets, so I think I’ll keep you around.”

“Oh, sure. I feel so used.”

“You’re stalling.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“Nope,” Clint said, popping the ‘p’ with extra emphasis. “It would take way too long, and I don’t wanna get into it.”

“But you came here because you’re in trouble, and I’m offering to help, so you’re going to.”

Clint sighed. “Look, I just came her to ask if you could watch Lucky for a bit while I’m, uh, busy- with work stuff-”

“Yeah, I figured that out already.” A sly smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he shifted to get more comfortable on the couch, leaning back and crossing his legs. “I may be blind, but I still know what you, showing up in a panic with the dog, plus the dog’s things, means.”

“Okay, well in my defense…” Matt just waited, shaking his head while Clint raced for something even just a little bit intelligent to say. “Okay, I’ve got nothing,” he ceded, shrugging, “but are you going to do me a solid or not? I’m trying to do a thing, to stop some people, who, are trying to do a not good thing, and a lot of people could get hurt, and- ya know feel free to stop me any time because I’m running out of words and I can’t tell you a lot, so.”

“Just start from the beginning.”

“Um, how about no?” Clint asked, hopeful.

“You tell me why, since you pulled up outside, your pulse had been elevated and you’ve been fidgeting with the hem of your coat nervously, and no bullshit, and I’ll watch your damn dog.”  
Lucky sat upright and turned to face them both, tongue lolling to the side and eyes alert like he’d sensed they’d been talking about him.

Clint patted his head. “I thought you weren’t qualified for therapy.”

“Tell me what happened-”

“No.”

“What did you do-”

“Nothing-”

“Is it personal or professional?”

“How is that relev-”

“It’s both, isn’t it?”

“Um, I didn’t catch that. Try again later-”

“It’s both.”

“Yes,” Clint blurted out, giving up. “Yes, okay? Train wreck, remember? And you’ve really hit the nail on the head with that one because let me tell you, it’s only a problem because it’s both professional and personal.”

“Oh this is going to be good.” Clint would have been angry with him for that, but he didn’t say it like he was brushing it off as nothing, but more in a sad sort of way, and like he’d already committed himself to hearing him out.

Clint took as deep a breath he could manage without descending into a fit of coughing. Releasing it, he nodded. “Okay. So I’m about to tell you something that absolutely under no circumstance are you allowed to speak of or even think of ever again, because if literally any other single human being finds out, I and another person and probably a few others will be so screwed seven ways to Sunday. I’m not joking. You’ve never been chewed out by Captain America before- it’s awful, he has this disapproving look like he’s been personally hurt, makes you feel like you kicked his puppy or something. I don’t want that.”

Matt nodded. “I believe you. And I won’t. But why are you actually telling me? Don’t say it’s because you need me to watch Lucky, because if you really didn’t want to tell me, you’d march right out of here and find another way.”

He made a frustrated, pained noise in the back of his throat, throwing his hands up and dragging them through his hair. “Because I need someone to tell me it’s stupid and I shouldn’t do it and I should stop, even though knowing me I won’t listen to that advice. And, really, I feel like it’s at the heart of all of my issues- ha, what an appropriate pun. And I need to fix it, cause I’m horrible at it.” He took a breath, thinking. “And this is the last thing I thought I’d end up doing but I’m gonna go ahead and dump this on you because you insisted and hell do I need help and still knowing me I’m gonna spill it eventually and I feel like you’re my best option here so tell me to shut up right now if you want to avoid unnecessary drama because oh boy do I have more than enough for the both of us.”

He just shook his head, shrugging. “Might as well go for it then. Spill.”

Clint didn’t allow himself time to consider what he was doing. Time to consider that maybe it wasn’t a good idea at all. Nope, his mouth was running, and he didn’t give the rational part of his brain time to catch up and stop himself. “Okay so basically my problem is that I’ve fallen absolutely, unapologetically, irrevocably head over heels for my best friend, co-worker, and partner, who yes, before you ask, are all the same person. And honestly, it scares me so much that the feeling might just be mutual. And it’s really fucking me up, okay?”

There was a long pause, during which Clint screwed his eyes shut and refused to look at Matt. “Okay,” he finally spoke. “Hold that thought. I’m gonna call Foggy and tell him we’ll need to reschedule for tomorrow. This is going to be a while.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Two hours. Two freaking hours. And what did Clint learn? Screw therapy. Throw that shit out the window. He didn’t need Hernandez picking at his brain when he had pals like Matt to rant to, no strings attached.

Thing is, he didn’t talk to Clint like he was trying to fix some huge asteroid sized hole in his very existence, and he didn’t look at him like everything he did and said made him pity or sympathize with him and he didn’t make Clint feel like he was trying to get in his head and see what was going on. The guy had his own troubles- he didn’t have time for that shit. Nope, he was completely practical about it too. Problem, outlook, response. Done. Next problem. It was actually probably his ‘what the fuck is actually going on right now’ disattachment to the whole situation that made it bearable. 

He’d started off with the ins and outs and strictly best-to-avoid nature of his could-go-nuclear-in-his-face-at-any-minute relationship with Natasha, including the consequences, and from there, it also included how he kept fucking up. Matt also wanted to know about the current global health threat struggles they were dealing with, even if he couldn’t tell him all the details (the biggest being that there was this massive secret government body underworld called SHIELD that he worked for, and they were trying to stop a potentially global bio-terror attack) so he stuck with some vague generalities and ‘theoreticals’. 

And no, he hadn’t reached any life altering conclusion about his life or himself. He didn’t even have solutions to any of his problems- not really. But there aren’t how-to solutions for real shit in life. They both had experience with that. And he might have come out of it slightly more willing to accept that. Maybe. No promises. He could do what he could do though, even if it wasn’t always enough.

That just left his Shakespearean tragedy of a romance, which was a lot more complicated, and they still somehow ended up coming back to.

“So do you love her?”

Clint choked on nothing at all, and it quickly devolved into a fit of coughing and finished with Clint gasping for air, his lungs burning and diaphragm spasming. He reigned it in though, and managed to get out words. “What the fuck man? You can’t just ask that shit out of nowhere? I don’t know- How am I supposed to know that?”

“Well it’s not coming out of nowhere. And yeah, I think you do know.” Matt was altogether way too calm and collected about this, and Clint was way too sober to even think about it. 

“I mean, she’s my best, oldest friend- I’ve known her for years. I trust her with my life, hell, I’d die for her, without a doubt. But all that’s,” he searched for the word, “different.”

Matt sighed, stretching his arms over his head and rolling his shoulders. “Okay.”

“Okay?” 

“Okay.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Fifteen minutes after that, he was bidding Lucky farewell and thanking Matt again for agreeing to watch after him for the near foreseeable future, even if he was being a dick about it by blackmailing him. (Matt insisted that did not fit under the legal parameters of the term blackmail, and Clint kindly told him he could stick the legality of it up his lawyer ass.) Thirty minutes after that, he was pulling up on Avengers Tower, bright and imposing in the New York City skyline. His bag was packed, his thoughts were in order- well, sort of, no, he was mulling a lot of questions over in his head- but everything else was handled. Now, he just had one no doubt very angry ex-Soviet assassin to answer to, and some yellow jump-suited assholes to track down and handle with extreme prejudice. Sure, neither of those things would be easy, or necessarily pleasant, but it was something. It was time to buckle down and do some heroing.

He’d pulled down beneath the tower, the metal shutters descending with a rattle behind him and the yellow lights automatically turning on, illuminating the cavern. Parking in the open spot immediately to the right or his designated spot simply because he could. (He’d told Tony he thought designated spots were stupid; if someone wanted to plant a bomb or tracker beneath his car, they would know exactly which was his, and besides, there were at least a hundred spaces and with two dozen of those filled by Stark’s own impressive collection and then a few for the rest of them, there were never near enough vehicles down there to merit a need for designated parking spaces.)

Bag over his shoulder, he made his way into the elevator, the polished metal doors gliding shut behind him. “My floor, Jarvis. Please and thank you.”

The AI didn’t respond, but the elevator started moving upward, so he took that as an answer. It was only when the flashing numbers across the top of the doors stopped a little too early that something struck him as off. The lift came to a smooth stop, and the with a click signaling his arrival, the doors slid open to reveal someone’s personal floor- and it wasn’t his. A short hallway from the elevator opening into a living room setup, a kitchen connected farther back on the left, the mouth of another hallway on the right. And he recognized it. The elevator he stopped on Natasha’s floor. Well.

“Um, Jarvis, wrong floor buddy.” Clint hit the button for the correct floor- his floor- but nothing happened. “Jarvis?”

As Clint was still sans hearing aids, Jarvis’ response appeared written out on a blueish tinged screen projected out of nowhere on the wall of the elevator. ‘Yes, Agent Barton?’

“Take me up to my floor please?” Clint hit the button again, but nothing happened, so naturally he repeated the action a little faster and a little harder while he peered out from around the edge of the open door, but still to no effect.

‘I’m sorry, Sir. I can’t do that.’

“Why the hell not?”

‘Agent Romanoff has asked that you be redirected here upon your return. I have since notified her of your arrival.’

“What?” His voice rose a few undignified octaves. The freaking machine had the audacity to sound apologetic about it. He gave up on his floor and hit the button for the ground floor, any floor, but still the doors remained open. “Traitor,” he hissed, scowling at the inside of the elevator.

Jarvis didn’t have anything to add apparently. But whatever. Clint needed to do this anyway. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to quite yet, but it didn’t matter. If fate were an angry Russian who had somehow managed to strong-arm an AI into doing her bidding, then fate would have him there. He stepped out, duffel bag over his shoulder, and walked carefully over the gleaming hardwood floors toward the couch in the middle of the living room, each step cautious and intentional, like he was trading through a minefield.

He dropped the bag besides the couch, shed his coat and boots, and lowered himself onto the cushion. He wasn’t sure what exactly to do or where to go, but figured whatever was going to happen would find him there. As he waited for the inevitable and reigned himself in before he got any bad ideas, he looked around the space. He’d been in it before, but never for any extended length of time.

It was certainly spacious. It was an entire floor after all, just like all of the personal quarters Tony had provided them each with were. Clint’s floor was more space that he knew what to do with really. And, similar to his level, the floor plan of Natasha’s level, and probably all the others, were pretty much the same. It was the details that seemed, well, personalized. Clint hadn’t really thought about it before, but he realized that Tony must have put a lot of thought into putting all of their floors together. It was all really nice- like never in a million years could he afford it if he actually had to pay rent kind of nice- but it wasn’t something that had been pulled out of a catalogue.

Clint’s thoughts wandered away from him for a few moments, his eyes roving around the room, when he got a weird feeling that was familiar, but at the same time not something he could explain, like a prickling at the back of his neck and an uneasiness sloshing around inside his chest.

Clint settled back into the couch, closing his eyes. “Are you gonna hide there forever?”

He didn’t have to open his eyes, or even hear anything, to know that Natasha stepped out from around the corner off to his right where the hallway led off to a bedroom and bathroom. He did however look to watch what she did next. Barefoot, wearing an oversized grey sweatshirt she had stolen from him at some point and old worn jeans, she padded across the stretch of plush carpet toward the couch where he sat. Even unable to hear anything as he was, he knew that she didn’t make a sound.

She came to a stop in front of him, a few steps short and a low coffee table between them. There, she paused, and after a moment, her hands were moving in sign. ‘I was waiting to see if you were going to run for the stairs.’

Clint’s mouth formed a tight line, a pained sort of half smile. “The thought did cross my mind,” he admitted, but kept his tone and face impassive, not betraying much.

Seconds ticked away, but neither spoke or moved. He just felt her eyes observing him, and while there was a lot to say, neither of them seemed keen on saying it. Finally though, she moved, a simple gesture. ‘Ears?’

“Batteries,” Clint said by way of explanation.

Her hands fell, and she nodded, her eyes falling to the floor for a moment. She began saying something, the delicate curves of her mouth forming syllables and sounds, but her hair, which was loose around her shoulders, fell in front of her face, and he couldn’t make it out. She looked back up at him, eyes dark and hard and just a little too bright, her jaw held tight.

“I didn’t- your hair…” He opened his mouth to say something more, but didn’t. Couldn’t. A constricting feeling, like metal bands around his chest being pulled tight, left him speechless.

“I said,” she repeated, suddenly the hardness gone from her eyes and replaced by something else, something vulnerable, as she spoke. “Do you want to leave?”

He was shaking his head, no. No he didn’t. That tight feeling around his chest had managed to work its way up to his throat, and he didn’t trust himself to speak. He took a shaky breath, blinking hard a few times and rubbing his hands over his face roughly, pulling himself together.

When he looked back up, she was moving, stepping quickly around the table that separated them and then she was sitting next to him, leaning into his shoulder, her arms going around him. He twisted to face her, pulling her in close and holding her tightly against his chest. “Sorry,” he mumbled into the curve of her shoulder, burying his face into the rumbled soft fabric of her sweatshirt.

She threw a leg over his lap so she was kneeling, straddling him. Her hands went to his shoulders, then on either side of his face, she made him look up at her. “You needed space.”

“Not an excuse.” He wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his forehead on her shoulder again. “Was being a dick.”

She laughed gently- he could tell by the subtle rise and fall of her chest, the slight shake in her shoulders. She pressed her lips to the top of his head, running her fingers through his hair and down to rest at the back of his neck. With her other hand, she felt down to his pocket and retrieved his aids, pulling them free before he could protest. Then she was gone, having stood from the couch, and all he saw was her back as she retreated down the hallway toward the bedroom.

“Hey, where you going?”

She spun, lofting his purple BTEs to emphasize her point. “Batteries. Need them.” He darted after her, but she had already disappeared behind the corner.

Down the hallway, he pushed the door to her bedroom open and saw her sitting on the edge of the impeccably made bed, drawer to her bedside table open. She was bent over the top of the table, focused on switching the batteries out, her brow furrowed slightly as she eyed the one battery which was being particularly difficult. He stalled, leaning against the doorway as he watched her, a fond smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, just a little upward quirk, but when she looked back at him, she frowned suspiciously.

“What,” she ordered, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Nothing, nothing,” he assured her, hands going up in a placating gesture. “I just missed you is all.”

“You were gone for a few hours.” She rolled her eyes at him, returning her attention to the batteries as she finished clicking everything in place.

“Yeah, I was.”

She twisted to face him where she sat and abruptly threw his aids at him, which he snatched out of the air deftly before sliding them into place. It was always a weird sensation when the sound returned; even in a quiet room, he could just tell the difference, like everything was clearer, more defined. She patted the bed beside her, jerking her chin in a bid for him to come over. He did, and sat beside her.

“Where did you go?” Her tone was soft, easy.

“You know exactly where I went- back to get Lucky. Why aren’t you mad at me? I was expecting a beat down.”

She smirked, flicking her hair out of her face. “That’s true. And I am mad at you, I’m just choosing to be forgiving.”

“Well that’s a lie. You don’t do ‘forgiving’.” He leaned back on his elbows, and she pulled her knees up, rotating to face him, sitting cross legged.

“No, just for you I do.”

He didn’t know how to respond to that, so he changed subjects. “Do you want to talk about it?” For once, it was actually him who was initiating that conversation, which, had some told him yesterday, he would not have believed.

“No,” and he was surprised. It must have shown on his face too. “Just tell me you’re okay.”

He stopped to actually consider it. “Yeah,” he finally admitted. “I think so.”

“We all took a hit today.”

“Mmhhm,” he agreed, nodding. “I never asked if you were okay.”

“Are you asking now?”

“Yes.” He didn’t look away, not for a second, just sat up straight and found his face mere inches from hers, searching for something in her eyes that would tell him she wasn’t.

“I’m alright.” Her response came as a little more than a low whisper, lips parted, eyes dark. She trailed a hand up his chest to his neck, her thumb dancing over a scrape along his jaw as she bit her lower lip, eyes dancing with something a little roguish that hadn’t been there a moment ago. “Better now.”

And maybe it was because he was terrible at taking a hint when it came to this sort of thing when it wasn’t a mission objective, or maybe it was because he had a lot on his mind and was distracted, but he didn’t manage to catch on until quite suddenly she was in his lap, straddling him once more but not at all in the same way, and her mouth was hovering over his.

A small surprised sound escaped his throat before she silenced him with her mouth on his, his hands going automatically to her hips as she pressed into him. There was no slow build- it was fast and needy, teeth biting and tugging on lips between gasps for breath, hands roving beneath sweatshirts, bodies pressed together, hips gyrating sinfully. She shoved him away from her, his back hitting the mattress and then she was crawling back up his body, sliding his sweatshirt up and over his head as he arched his back and raised his arms obediently to let her pull it over him. Her own sweatshirt- the one she’d stolen from him- was quickly unzipped and met his own discarded on the floor soon after.

His t-shirt was rucked up around his middle from the less than gentle removal of his sweatshirt, and Natasha took full advantage, grabbing the hem of his shirt and tugging it up further to reveal the smooth, tanned plains of muscle of his abdomen. She ducked her head, biting it the well-defined ridges of muscle and tracing the lines back up with her mouth, pulling a groan out of him as he threw his head back, heart racing and breathing shakily.

Frustrated with the material, she pulled it up over his head and threw it aside just like the others before she returned to tracing the muscle that lined his torso and shoulders. He shuddered visibly, swearing under his breath, to which she just grinned.

“Jesus- fuck, Nat. What even- I’m so confused right n-” His words caught in his throat, that sentence ending in a strangled gasp when she rolled her hips against his.

“Shut up, Clint,” she ordered, tone clipped. Then she froze, hovering so close over top of him, and met his eyes. “Do you want me to stop?”

Hadn’t he just been weighing the pros and cons of this relationship not even an hour ago? Hadn’t he been thinking about how they had to be so very careful, how they had to be smart about it? And weren’t there important things they needed to talk about? Well, neither of them were ever very good at talking about that kind of thing anyway. It took him about .2 seconds to make up his mind.

“Oh god, no.”


	7. easier than the truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chronic relationship difficulties and things coming to light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, sorry for the late update, but shit's been going down recently and I've not had the time. No worries though, we're back on track.
> 
> Also, sorry for the ridiculously long chapter that doesn't really do much in terms of the big picture (but hey, I finally have the rest of the thing planned out in detail so that's something) ???

They were sprawled across the bed, tangled in soft sheets, and terribly comfortable after what was an otherwise shitty and thoroughly uncomfortable day. Clint was lying flat on his back with the sheets pooling around his waist and ensnaring one of his legs, head tilted back and eyes drifting shut by the minute. Natasha had tugged the sheet free from where it had been tucked in at the end of the king sized, ridiculously soft yet no doubt orthopedic approved bed when it had refused to meet her demands, in part due to all of the entanglement, but her actions had certainly not made it any better. Regardless, it did manage to allow them to retain whatever modicum of modesty there was left to be had.

Stretched out leisurely, warm scar-marked skin was pressed against skin. She was half draped over his chest, one arm thrown over his abdomen, the other forearm resting above her head, fingers tapping out a steady, slow beat against his sternum. He was absently twirling a strand of the vibrant red curls splayed across his ribcage between his fingers, tugging gently as he wound it around his index finger: wind, unwind, repeat. 

It wasn’t really all that late. That much he knew. But it was still plenty dark out and quiet and it had been a hellish, very long day. And they were tired. The quiet was nice, a soft blanket that had settled over them. And he didn’t want to disturb it, but his brain apparently had other plans. The question had been echoing around in his head, weighing on him, since he left Matt’s place. Really, it didn’t seem like there would ever be a ‘good’ time for it, and he would blurt it out sooner or later, so might as well ask now. 

“What are we doing, Nat,” Clint asked, his low voice breaking the comfortable silence.

He felt her chest rise and fall with a breath as she shifted against him, breathing out with a long, barely audible sigh. He pulled his gaze away from the ceiling as he felt her lift her head to look at him, shaking her hair out of her face with a flick.

“I think it’s called cuddling, but we don’t have to call it that. In fact, it’d be better not to.”

He hummed noncommittally, shaking his head slightly. “No, I mean- this. Us. Relationship- thing.”

There was a pause, something like tension growing heavier in the air and settling between them. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and scooted back a fraction to lean into the pillows against the headboard. Natasha sat upright, one hand moving to hold the corner of the off-white colored sheet against her chest as she did, and he immediately missed the warm, easy, unconcerned contact from moments ago. 

The look he gave her was unreadable, bland, though the question was still posed. She returned it with an equally impassive facade, head tilted to the side and a now unruly mess of hair falling across one eye. She lifted a hand to brush it aside, collecting her thoughts before responding.

“Do you want the bullshit answer,” she drawled, her green eyes never wavering from his blue-grey ones, “or the real one.”

Right. Ask no questions and be told no lies; words he had heard before, and that were all too true and relevant. He heaved a sigh, rolling his shoulders. “Well, the real one preferably, but I won’t hold it against you if I get the other one.”

Another pause. A shallow nod was his only indication that she had even heard him before she answered. “I don’t know.” It was simple, dry, and he didn’t know if it was the truth or not, but he believed her. If there was a difference between the truth and believing, it didn’t exist between the two of them. Not in a long time.

“Yeah,” he sighed, body language and tone still muted and foreign, “I’ve been thinking about that lately.” There was something in his voice, like a hard edge. Something she didn’t like. It was just… off. She was about to make a ‘You? Thinking? Isn’t that dangerous?’ quip, but that edge, the somber, shadowed look, stopped her. He was being ernest in a way he often wasn’t, which was a little disconcerting, because usually it meant that a downward spiral of brooding and self doubt or depreciation- which one depending on the occasion- wasn’t long for following. Best get ahead of that storm before it hit to see what kind unnecessary damage they could avoid.

“I suppose we’re doing whatever it is people do,” she responded evenly. “What brings this on all of the sudden?”

A shrug. “Nothin’.”

She sighed, a shallow huff of breath accompanied by shoulders falling. “That is a lie, if I ever heard one.”

He glanced away for a fraction of a second, mouth pulled into a tight line. He swallowed, saying, “I don’t know, it’s just weird is all.”

“What, this? Well, it’s different, I don’t know about ‘weird’. Not like we haven’t been involved with other people before, or like it’s the first time we-” She ended it with a smirk and a suggestive head tilt, not that he was looking.

He turned back to her and just raised an eyebrow. “Involved,” he repeated, not a question or a statement, just the word.

She gave him her best ‘breaking the fourth wall’ look and a pointed nod at their current situation. Obvious enough. 

He rolled his eyes, shaking his head like that wasn’t what he’d meant, or wasn’t what he’d wanted from her, by the word. While she could see the gears turning, for all her skills and knowledge on everything Clint Barton, she didn’t know exactly what was going through his head. And that, she didn’t like. 

“We’ve always been partners.” It wasn’t a question of any sort, just a simple statement. She knew where he was going though.

“We have,” she agreed. “And it doesn’t have to change.”

“I don’t want that to change.”

“Neither do I. And as long as no one find out about this,” she shifted suddenly and leaned forward, pecking him once on the mouth before turning and settling into the pillows and sheets beside him, pulling her knees up to her chest beneath the cotton sheet, “it won’t have to. And, we’re pretty good at keeping secrets.” He lifted an arm, wrapping it around her shoulders and pulling her in closer as she leaned into him. 

“It’s not like we’ve given it a label.” She gave him an odd look. “Or, like, talked? About it? Like, not saying it’s something we have to talk about or anything, just wondering if we actually know what we’re doing or where it’s going or why or if it’s a good idea or n-”

She twisted and jabbed him in the side just below his ribcage none too gently, causing him to make a sound somewhere between a yelp and a gasp, though it stopped that wreck of a train of thought before it could get worse. He gave her an accusatory look, the arm not around her cradling his side. She cut him off before he could tell her off for it.

“Do you remember what I told you on the roof? The first time? You’ve got something good and then that part of you that does nothing but doubt yourself kicks in, then it’s quickly followed by the self-sabotaging, and you ruin it. You do that, Clint. No one else.” A pause. “It isn’t your finest quality.” 

He blinked at her, once, twice, before ducking away from her hard, yet not cold or accusatory gaze. She felt his chest rise and fall with an almost shaky breath before he spoke again, staring off across the room straight in front of him. 

“I’m not trying to ruin anything. They’re still valid p-”

“No, you’re just not trusting that a good thing could actually happen to you, and you’re going to pick at it until it falls apart.”

It was like he was frozen, refusing to look at her. When he did speak, that cold edge was back, except now it was accompanied by something more raw, like hurt, but more jaded. “I just want to know why we’re doing whatever it is we’re doing. I need to know that much, from you, Natasha.” He looked at her then, eyes flashing. “And I think that if you knew that yourself, you’d just tell me, instead of telling me not to think about it.”

He tried without knowing how successfully to keep the tight feeling in his throat at bay which threatened to reveal itself in a quiver in his voice. She was right to some extent; he was fully aware that fairly often he was his own worst enemy. But this, wasn’t that. His problem was that while neither of them knew exactly what they were doing, only one of them didn’t know why, and it sure as hell wasn’t him. 

“Clint,” Natasha started, voice low and cautious and something very uncertain flashing across her face. She pulled away from him, sitting up straight, the sheet knotted in her hands. “I don’t know what to call us. I don’t know what or why or how, but why does that matter? What we have- it’s, I don’t know. It’s what I want, and the last time I checked, it’s what you wanted. Don’t tell me that’s changed. Don’t. Because I’m tired of you lying to me.”

“Lying is all we do, anyway.”

“Clint-” she snapped, exasperated. 

“So I’m asking for the truth.”

With that, she was truly and utterly speechless. She had no idea what to say, felt completely unprepared for this topic, which had come out of nowhere, and felt it was all going downhill rapidly. The silence, heavy and uncomfortable and stressed, stretched seconds into minutes. Before she could find anything to say, however, he continued.

“You know what, never mind. Forget about it. I shouldn’t have said all that. Sorry.” He glanced around the room for his clothes, most of them gathered beside the bed. 

“Clint. What-”

“Actually, it’s getting late. And hell knows what tomorrow’s gonna be like, so should probably get some sleep.” He turned his back to her, untangling himself from the sheets and sliding off the bed where he set about quickly dressing.

“Clint, please. Would you just hold on for a minute? We can talk-”

He was busy locating and pulling his belt through his jeans, studiously refusing to look back at her. “Nope, not right now, okay? I’m sorry for bringing it up. You’re right. You’re always right.” He was pulling his t-shirt over his head, then reaching for his sweatshirt. Where was his coat? Right, front room, with his bag.

“Cut the bullshit, for once, would you?” She sounded hurt, and as much as that pained him, he wasn’t going to stay for this.

“I did. Not even a few minutes ago, I did,” he snapped. And he hadn’t meant to snap at her, but the constricted feeling in his chest that wasn’t letting him breath properly, the knot that weighed so heavily in his gut, the dryness that clawed at his throat and the mantra of ‘idiot, idiot, idiot’ playing on repeat in the back of his head weren’t helping. 

Fuck it. 

He looked back at where she was sitting amongst the sheets and pillows alone in a bed that was way too big for her small frame clutching a pillow to her chest, looking pale and shocked and confused and hurt all at once. Goddamnit, this was not what he wanted. None of it was- god fucking damnit.

“Look- I don’t,” he started, looking away for a moment and blinking hard before he continued. “It’s fine. I’m gonna go. Shouldn’t do this- not here. Have to be careful, right?” 

She shook her head. “If you would just talk to me,” she said, and the disappointment and concern he detected in her voice was everything he was expecting. “This is what you always do. Pull away. This is you, and how you ruin it.”

“No. No it’s not,” he said, on the brink of broken, hysteric laughter, but it was far from funny. “And we’re fine. We’re okay.” He stepped over to where she sat near the edge of the bed and leaned over, pressing a kiss to the top of her head before he quickly turned and walked away. At the door, he turned to face her. She hadn’t moved an inch, expression emotionless, eyes cold and dark. “I’ll so you tomorrow. Goodnight, Nat.” 

And then he was gone.

Leaving the bedroom behind him, then the living room as he grabbed his coat and bag, he was making for the elevator and hoping fervently not to encounter anyone in it. He just couldn’t put up with that right now. For once though, luck was with him, or maybe the universe had just taken pity on him. 

Externally, he was fine, leaving no trace or ghost of worry or frustration or any of the emotions and thoughts flying around inside him. Internally, he was reconsidering an earlier- much earlier- conflict that he had brushed off at the time. He was only a mostly sane individual because he could compartmentalize, and right about then, he was going about violently shoving all of it into a little filing cabinet in his head labeled ‘not right fucking now’ that could be found at the corner of aisles labeled ‘forget about it’ and ‘probably (won’t) consider later’. 

But still, trying to not think about something only made it harder to forget. But you know? He wasn’t even surprised. Yeah, he’d fucked up. Leaving wasn’t the thing to do, but it sure as hell was easiest. And yeah, he’d gone and put everything at risk: his job- both of them- his relationship with his best friend, his partner. He’d royally screwed up, overlapping the two sides of his life- the personal and the professional- like that. Why? Because once again, he’d gone and let himself care about someone like that, let himself fall in love with a fantasy story that he knew would never- could never- work in the real world. And that realization- along with the one that maybe he was wrong, so very wrong, that it could be the same for both of them- was coming to light.

And that, that, ladies and gents, was a consideration to be had on another day, possibly behind locked doors, possibly in a padded cell. He forced a calm composure in just the way he knew how. A way that he knew Natasha would see right through if she were there. A way he had learned from her in the first place. 

Stepping into his apartment from the elevator, he ordered Jarvis to lock it down- to not let anyone off at his level. He threw his bag down beside the bed that uncomfortably mirrored the one he’d just left (except for the perfectly tucked and folded dark navy colored sheets and comforter) and found himself stripping off in the bathroom, tossing his aids aside on the counter top, and stepping under the too-cold shower spray. As the water warmed up, he found himself re-running her words, their argument, the look on her face- that of hurt and confusion and then just a cold slate- and his departure, through his head, the chill of the water forgotten. 

And we’re pretty good at keeping secrets. Pretty good at keeping secrets.

Yeah, they were. Secrets were easy. Safe, so long as you kept them. Secrets were easier than the truth.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The morning only brought a cold chill in the air, stiff muscles, and aching injuries. Even burrowed under the blankets, he was cold. Ugh, he hated winter- it’s only redeeming qualities being the acceptability of drinking hot cocoa whenever the hell you please, Christmas, the unblemished white sheets of snow across Central Park, watching Lucky leap through the snow as he snaps at the air and tries to catch snowflakes, standing with Kate on the rooftop and- okay, maybe winter wasn’t so bad. No, the problem was the cold. The cold- the cold was unacceptable.

He rolled over to his other side and pulled the blankets more snug around him, stiff and sore limbs and- well, everything- protesting even the slightest of movements. He dozed for a while, willing himself back to sleep, but it just didn’t seem like it was going to happen. Slowly, forcing uncooperative and uncoordinated limbs into action, he managed to drag himself up into a sitting position and began to cautiously stretch out, loosening joints and muscles and carefully avoiding straining tendons. A good fifteen minutes later and he was feeling a lot better, even if the abuses and injuries he’d taken the day before were still painful, though not so much as that he couldn’t ignore them.

Yesterday. Oh god. 

Everything from the day before, beginning with the call to assemble and ending with Natasha, came crashing back like an avalanche, the weight of it all crushing him. It made going back to sleep for a week or two sound like a better option.

He fell back into the bed, staring at the uninteresting ceiling. After spending a good deal of time and mental energy willing his problems to go away, only to find- surprisingly- that they didn’t, he came to the conclusion that he could more readily hide from his issues elsewhere; i.e., somewhere that wasn’t the first place that his problems and their hosts would come looking for him. 

Throwing the covers off of him, he grit his teeth against the chilly temperature of the room and slid to the ground, thankful for the carpet, rather than having to suffer through his bare feet making contact with cold hardwood floors. The alarm clock read 10:12 AM. Ugh, definitely time to get up. Finding his hearing aids where he left them on the bedside table, he slid them into place, blinking at the familiar yet never failing to be weird sensation, like breaking through the surface of the water, muddled, muted, and dull sounds, even his own breathing and movements, now crisp and clear. 

First things first, he asked Jarvis to kick the thermostat up. There, that was one problem solved, or at least solved after the time it took to heat up a little, but still. If only all of his others had one stop shop solutions, then he’d be just fine and dandy. 

Then, after shuffling across the room to the attached bathroom, he changed into an older pair of worn jeans, a fresh t-shirt, he threw on his boots without bothering to lace them (avoiding the bare feet on cold surfaces circle of hell) and a soft, warm black hoodie. The final step he had planned? Coffee.

He didn’t encounter anyone on his way to the kitchen, for which he was thankful, however upon stepping off the elevator, he realized that was probably because everyone was already there. Or, almost everyone. 

Steve and Banner were seated at the end of the table with mugs of coffee and newspapers, talking about something or other quietly. Sam was standing by the counter at the coffee maker next to Darcy and Jane, who Clint was honestly surprised- though happily so- to still see around, and Thor was seated at one of the kitchen island stools close enough to the other three at the counter to be involved in whatever was going on there. That only left Tony, and Natasha. 

Natasha- he wasn’t sure how it was going to go when he saw her next. Christ, everything was such a mess. His best friend, partner, and while all he wanted to do was go find her, at the same time, the last thing he wanted to do was see her. Odds were it would only either result in physical injury or a look of utter indifference followed by the cold shoulder for at least a week, and actually, the physical injury option would hurt less.

He made his way over to the small crowd between him and the coffee. “Wilson, either pour me a mug or get outta the way.” Sam turned, leaning back against the counter to face him.

“If you stop calling me that, I just might put on a new pot for you,” Sam said with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The two men had a love-hate friendship founded mostly on challenging and mocking one another, and creating worse and worse bird puns and nicknames for one another than made even Tony cringe. 

“No time for a new pot. Hand it over now,” he grumbled, leaning his hip against the edge of the counter beside him while Sam begrudgingly snagged a mug and poured.

Holding the mug hostage, he said, “Only my old military buddies and Cap can call me that. You haven’t earned the right,” and he passed it to him. Taking it, Clint scooted away to a comfortable distance.

“Psh, sure. Don’t want me to call you that, I can think of plenty other things.” Sam may have said something else but he’d stopped paying attention, instead focusing on the coffee in his hands. A few moments later, however, his attention was recalled when someone- Sam probably- threw a crumpled napkin at him. 

Glaring over the rim of his mug, he eyed Sam, Jane, Darcy, and Thor, daring one of them to claim responsibility for the projectile. Thor just raised an eyebrow, amused, Jane tried to hide a smile, Sam failed at looking innocent, and Darcy pointed at Sam. (He knew there was a reason he liked her.)

Throwing some shade at the other man with a pointed look, Clint debated expending the energy to flip him off, but figured it wasn’t worth it. Darcy just waved him over. Stepping over into their little circle, he resigned himself to human interaction. “Okay, what are we gossiping about,” he sighed.

“Did you see Natasha this morning?” Darcy asked.

Alarm bells. Making sure that his expression betrayed nothing, he proceeded with caution. “Nope. I just rolled out of bed and made it down here. Why?”

He noted a look exchanged between Darcy and Jane. “She was down here earlier. She just seemed, off, I guess. Um, distracted? Angry? Something like that.” Jane shrugged, sipping from her mug.

“And you know that, how?”

“We came up behind her and surprised her. And I didn’t think that was possible,” Darcy added. “And then she she stormed off. Definitely not like her.”

“Um, okay. I’m sure it’s just yesterday and all. No one’s really thrilled about that. She’ll be fine.”

There were more exchanged glances, this time between between the two women and Sam, and there were enough looks and subtle gestures of body language between them, as well as a few directed at him, to tell him something was definitely being said, and it had something to do with Natasha and him. Needless to say, he was more than a little suspicious. 

“Okay, what’s going on?”

“Hmm? Nothing.” Sam brushed off his pointed gaze.

“Why’d you ask me?” 

“Well, we just figured,” Jane said.

“That you two are really close,” Darcy finished. “Like, you’re practically the expert on all things Natasha.”

“What? Hardly,” Clint rolled his eyes, turning his attention back to his mug, draining it.

“Oh, come on,” Sam laughed. “You’ve known each other longer than anyone else here.”

“You’ve worked together for longer than anyone else,” Jane added.

“You speak in your own secret language, for Pete’s sake,” Darcy jumped on.

“ASL is not a secret language. Any of you could learn it,” Clint scoffed. “And yeah we were a team before the Avengers were a thing, but you know the first time we met she tried to kill me? Closest I ever came to death.”

“Even more reason why you two know each other so well. True friends overcome little things like trying to murder each other,” Sam said with a smile.

“Huh, you’d be surprised about that,” Clint said, prodding Sam out of the way to get at the coffee maker and pour himself more. 

“Sounds like a great story. You’ll have to tell us about that some time, you know,” Sam said, stepping out of the way.

“Yeah, it’s along story, and strictly classified, so that’ll have to wait for another day,” Clint muttered.

Another cup of coffee later, and Clint was starting to feel more like an actual human being. The others were chatting away amiably, but he had slowly disengaged himself from the conversation and was content to stand to the side and enjoy the comfortable atmosphere, watching and listening to the going-ons of the room from a distance. However, he found his thoughts pulled back to what they’d said about Natasha, and couldn’t help but feel worry and guilt gnaw at his insides.

The lull was shattered when the elevator door slid open and in marched Tony Stark, Pepper Potts, and a recognizable though not necessarily familiar face, Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes. Right behind them came Natasha. The collective attention of the room was pulled to the three newcomers. 

Clint averted his gaze, feeling his partner’s eyes on him, and the guilt and returning sense of helplessness hit him with all the weight of a punch right to his chest. Instead, he watched the others’ reactions intently, his mug of steaming coffee forgotten. 

Steve was immediately at attention, back straight and head up as he watched Tony and the other two make their way to the kitchen space. “Tony, what’s the word?”

“Okay, did I miss something?” Clint turned his head to ask Sam quietly, the man standing shoulder to shoulder with him.

“Rhodes is on extended leave- he’ll be around for a few weeks at least- and Pepper came got here ASAP when she finally beat the truth ‘bout what happened out of Tony. And like twenty minutes ago Fury was on the line. Spoke with Tony,” Sam filled in hurriedly in a hushed tone while everyone else moved in closer around the four joining them.

“Okay, everyone just back up. Hold on a sec-” Tony started, holding his hands up against most everyone’s unconscious advance forward. That didn’t stop everyone from speaking at once, questions flying. They were all eager and nervous and on edge. Even with his aids, it was hell trying to sort everything. 

“Is there any news about AIM-” “-found the Quinjet-” “-Fury have any leads-” “What about the hostages-” “- any demands-”

“Jesus Christ, everyone shut up, would you?” Tony yelled, loudly, but tone lacking any spite or anger. Stark was standing firm, hands on hips, scowling at the apologetic faces around him; all but Clint, Pepper, Rhodes- and Natasha- who had all stood back, had seen fit to throw themselves into the fray.

Looking a little sheepish, it wasn’t any surprise that Steve spoke first, the others looking to him to proceed. “Sorry, Tony.” A pause. “So, what did Fury have to say?”

Tony huffed a breath, pulling out a stool and taking a seat. “Not to be the bringer of bad news or anything, but SHIELD has nothing. No leads, can’t find the Quinjet, no chatter coming from AIM, all their sources ‘went dark’ or something, yada yada yada- point is, he’s not happy with how we handled it and wanted to tell us off in person.”

“I somehow doubt he said that,” Sam piped up.

Tony gave a half shrug. “Not in so many words.”

Steve looked incredulous, to say the least. “That’s really all he had to say? He called in to say he had nothing.”

“Well, there was also something about not going off heroing on our own and keeping our noses out of it, because he had his people on it, and he’d call if he wanted us, to put us where he wanted, when he wanted us, and there’d be no exceptions. So yeah, something like that,” Tony ended on a chipper note.

There was unhappy muttering, some grumbles and sighs and eye rolls. “Are you really gonna sit here on your asses until SHIELD pulls something up and Fury decides to let you guys into the loop?” Darcy asked, looking personally offended. “If that ever even happens? I mean come on, that’s totally not fair. It’s not like it was your fault.”

“It has to be someone’s fault,” Bruce responded evenly, folding his newspaper- the Wall Street Journal- neatly in front of him. “It might as well be ours. Sometimes that’s how it works.”

Eyes were back on Steve, seeking his input. He was frowning, brow creased and staring hard at the table in front of him in thought. “Well, it’s not like we have any leads either. If we did, it would be a different story. But, for now, we play it by the book.”

“Are you suggesting that, if we, perchance, did have something, we might be not so inclined to sit tight and play nice?” Tony raised a questioning eyebrow, fingers tapping quickly on the counter top.

Steve seemed to weigh their options. “Well, if the public safety is at risk...”

“-and there just isn’t time to pass it on to Fury through the proper chain of command-” Sam interjected.

“Then we would of course have to use our own discretion, and act accordingly,” Steve finished. “So, Tony, if Jarvis could-”

“Right, right,” Tony cut in, waving dismissively and already staring off into space, thinking quickly and speaking a mile a minute. “Monitor the dark and ugly internet underworlds, run keyword searches though I’m sure AIM has their own code- I can make an algorithm for that then- start a patchwork data analysis, run cryptography software, hack SHIELD communications, maybe see what they’re up to and where they’re looking- did I say hack? I meant totally one hundred percent legal data mining. Jarvis- run the 2.0 delta processing uni-”

“Okay, thanks for that Tony,” Pepper cut in, stopping him mid ramble. “Let’s not go getting ahead of ourselves.”

“Right, of course, sure.” Though he was obviously still running through whatever voodoo he was just talking about in his head. 

That was when Natasha spoke up. “Did you say SHIELD’s sources had gone dark?” Her tone was an even blank slate, though just from the question everyone knew she had something to say, or a point to make. Hearing her bring it up now, it did strike Clint as weird. He should have picked up on that sooner, but to be honest, he was paying more attention on trying to not pay attention to his partner than he was to listening to everything Tony had said.

“Um, yeah,” he answered, pulled out of his reverie. “Something about their contacts regarding AIM going dark, not hearing from them. Why?”

“Does that mean something to you?” Steve asked.

She paused, eyes falling to the floor, and Clint stole a glance across the room to her. She looked fine. He didn’t know what he’d expected, or not expected, but everything about her- from her relaxed posture to her fingers slowly tapping against her leg to biting at her bottom lip in thought- besides the uncertainty as she thought about whatever it was racing through her head, struck him as so normal. He supposed that was a good thing.

“I would just expect him to say SHIELD contacts had gone underground, or that they just didn’t have anything useful- or ever that they’d gone zero comm and SHIELD hasn’t been able to reach them. Going ‘dark’ in the unofficial sense means that SHIELD has lost contact with its sources. So, they’ve either skipped town and gone off the grid, or someone has, well, taken them off the grid in a way I’m sure they didn’t like.” That sank in. “Whichever way, they either learned someone was coming for them, or that someone got the drop on them.”

“AIM’s cleaning up shop,” Clint said a little louder than he’d intended to, his mouth working without his permission, and without meaning to he looked up and met Natasha’s eyes for a frozen second until she just blinked and moved on, looking back to Steve and the others. She was completely zoning whatever their problems were out, and he couldn’t say he was surprised about it. Given the situation, their current mission status, they couldn’t be letting any of it stop them from doing their jobs, and it certainly couldn’t get in the way of the team’s functioning. That’s how people get hurt. The alternative though was that it wasn’t a facade, but he chose to push that thought aside. It was still startling, and the resurgence of guilt and almost physical pain welling inside him was still present, but he shoved it ruthlessly aside. 

Eyes were on him. Oh, right. “Um, they’re tightening rank. Cleaning up loose ends, hunting out potential weak spots, leaks. Obviously, they’ve got the whole supervillain, evil master plan secrecy thing going, so it makes sense. I’m sure only a few in AIM’s organization actually know what’s going on- it’d be smart to compartmentalize. People only know what each absolutely needs to, no one knows the whole picture except the guy, or lady-” (he was as supportive of equal opportunity supervillains as the next fella) “ behind it.” he shifted his weight awkwardly at the silence. “Well, that’s what I’d do anyway.”

“Okay, so what does that mean for us, Mr. insight-into-the-evil-grand-plan?” Sam asked.

“Is it possible that there’s anyone out there AIM hasn’t gotten to yet?” Jane suggested.

“Or maybe someone that’s too valuable to AIM to cut loose?” Steve added, looking just a little bit hopeful.

They waited for Clint or Natasha, their apparent resident experts on such matters, to reply. It was Natasha, of course, who spoke first. Clint wasn’t sure exactly how to respond to that. “Potentially, though I wouldn’t put much faith on it. AIM is a large organization, even if no one at SHIELD likes to admit it. Most of SHIELD’s more valuable contacts that they’d reach out to are- independent contractors, lets call them- who have or currently do work with AIM. Some are suppliers, others fences and brokers, some less-than-legally-conscientious private security firms, middlemen, occasionally specialists and a few mercenaries. ”

“It’s the business connections they can trace to AIM, and that’s how you’ve got yourself a potential mark, or a contact to put under SHIELD’s thumb. Anyone who knows anything worthwhile, SHIELD’s already got its hands on if it’s possible. Which, to us, isn’t helpful,” Clint explained, staring down at his cooling half mug of coffee, though finding it unappetizing.

Natasha sighed, rubbing her temples. “It’s ironic, because there was one person, an international dealer in whatever’s both illegal and valuable, who had close ties to AIM, and probably would have been consulted on their latest bioweapon interest, but we dealt with him earlier this year.”

“You killed him?” Tony asked.

“What? No.” She looked annoyed. “He’s in SHIELD custody, and has been for months now. Needless to say, he’ll be quite out of the loop regarding what’s happening. And, more to the point, while I’ve a few contacts who keep an ear to the ground for me when it comes to things like this, I don’t have any ties to people in the positions we need.”

There was a moment of passing silence as everyone mulled it over. 

“Clint? Anyone you can reach out to?” Steve asked, having stood and joined their circle, now standing arms crossed like a brick wall in front of him. 

“Uh, not really. I mean, I can put the word around, but odds are, that’ll just get someone killed for digging into AIM’s business,” Clint explained, a sympathetic halfhearted shrug rolling off his shoulders. 

“What, no big-shot in the criminal underworld whose arm you can twist? Huh, James Bond could do better,” Tony said with a distinctly unimpressed flourish.

“It isn’t like the movies, Tony. Very few things are. The majority of our contacts aren’t even criminals; they’re members of the international law enforcement community, or federal intelligence branches- it’s much cleaner and easier that way,” Natasha corrected him.

“That way, trading favors for information involves a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, not jetting across the globe on short notice to break up a massive arms deal between your contact’s competitor and the biggest Czech crime family there is. Been there, done that, wouldn’t recommend it,” Clint muttered, running a hand through his tousled hair and mostly ignoring the raised eyebrows shooting his way.

“Um, oh-kay,” Tony said, knowing there was definitely a story to be had there but figuring that this moment wasn’t the time for it.

“I’ve spent some time in Eastern Europe,” Natasha explained. “AIM conducts a lot of business through old Soviet satellite states. I might be able to scrounge up something, but I don’t think anything more than some general information we already know would come from it.”

Clint heard them discussing something but wasn’t really listening, instead, shifting through a list of old contacts and associates. “Hm, maybe there’s-” he froze mid sentence, something Natasha had said a moment ago being recalled to the forefront of his mind, and a really, truly unpleasant, very regrettable realization coming about, the unfortunate viability of it dawning on him.

“Clint? Got an ideas?” Steve was asking, studying the man closely as he stepped closer.

“Hey man, come on, if you know something, spill,” Sam added, to which Tony agreed and unhelpfully added his own commentary.

He blinked, inhaling sharply and shaking his head as if it would help him clear his thoughts. He stared blankly at the mug, now lukewarm, still cradled between his hands. “Well... shit.”

Then Natasha was beside him. “Clint?” Her hand was a soft pressure at his elbow, drawing his attention to her. There was concern in her eyes, which were soft and for the first time betrayed some sort of emotion beneath their sharp, brilliant green facade. He wasn’t afforded time to be surprised by the softness of her tone or touch or eyes, wasn’t afforded the opportunity to ask her why she wasn’t pissed as hell and not wanting anything to do with him at the moment.

It kickstarted his brain, and the words started falling from his mouth. “Just- you said, and I hadn’t thought- not in years, I mean. It was so long ago and after we… well you don’t think they’d still- fuck it- when you said private security firms, you don’t think, Blackbriar-” he opened and closed his mouth a few times, a pained expression no doubt flashing across his face. It wasn’t often- well, really ever- that the others saw him rendered so unable to speak. Not speechless- he had plenty to say- just too off put and momentarily floundering to say it.

“Oh.” Surprise fluttered across her face, the small sound escaping her lips. She looked genuinely surprised to hear that name again, but then, the look she gave him, like the pieces were falling into place. 

“Okay, does someone want to explain it to the rest of us poor souls who have no idea what you’re talking about?” Tony asked, throwing his arms up. He was promptly ignored.

But then, he saw uncertainty there.“They’re still active?” she asked, brows furrowed.

“In the States and abroad,” Clint affirmed, a bitter edge creeping into his tone. Understandable though, considering the history they had, but only Natasha knew about that. And he’d prefer it stayed that way.

“Okay then,” she said slowly, nodding, eyes locked on his slightly (to anyone else, unnoticably) panicked ones. “We check the files, see if there’s a connect to follow.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, nodding and finally setting his abandoned mug down on the counter. “That’d be a good place to start.”

“Barton. Romanoff,” Steve interrupted, tone blunt and no-nonsense. Both of their heads jerked in his direction. Captain America mode Steve tended to have a commanding presence. “Do you know something worth sharing or not?”

“Possibly,” Natasha answered, “It’s something of a long shot, but worth looking into.”

“Okay, just stop with the remarkably less than definitive answers,” Tony raised his voice, sounding frustrated and on edge. “Do you have a contact you can reach out to for information or not?”

Clint shook his head. “I definitely wouldn’t call it a contact-”

“Do you know where- from someone or something- we can find information on AIM?” Sam tried, becoming as exasperated as Tony.

“Uh, sort of- though might have to try a few different-”

“What files? SHIELD’s? If so, aren’t they already looking into that?” Pepper questioned, having been listening astutely.

“What? No- well, yeah, but it’s different. They’re not about AIM, or even known sources affiliated with AIM.” Clint tried to explain, though Sam jumped in.

“Then why the hell are they supposed to helpful-”

“Oh for the love of god, what is this ‘Blackbriar’ thing you were talking about, Clint?” It was surprising, but also not, when Jane spoke next, clearly not pleased with the information being withheld from her.

He sighed, retorting, “Well, it’s complicated,” his tone a little sharper than it was a moment ago.

That earned him a general ruckus full of sighs and muttered remarks of disapproval and agitation from most of the ten others standing around in the suddenly very cramped kitchen. And then they were on their feet, circling him whether they’d meant to or not, and pelting him with questions. Everyone was trying to talk over everyone else and Steve and Tony were arguing in the middle of it and then Sam was jumping in and Pepper was stepping in and the whole atmosphere had turned hostile. Volatile, more like. Their team and company were a ticking time bomb of strong minded and mony loud mouthed individuals, and any control that anyone had over the situation was quickly dissipating. 

His head was spinning, Clint was beginning to eye his immediate surroundings for escape routes out of the kitchen and to the stairs- anything to get out of this madness which he really did not need, thank you. But Natasha was still hanging onto his arm, and while he still didn’t entirely know where they were at in the given moment, he didn’t want to push her away. He didn’t want to move away from her- the one person standing beside him at the moment who knew what was going on, and hadn’t lost her composure. She wasn’t even saying anything, but he was grateful. 

It was actually Bruce that tempered the rising storm, his voice, loud, though level and in control as always (well, not always, always, but always) heard above the others. “Alright, alright,” he called out, moving to stand in the center of the open floor space just about in the middle of everyone with his hands out in a clear ‘stop’ gesture. His mouth was a hard line but he mostly just looked annoyed, like he suddenly had to deal with a bunch of children- which he sort of was. “Everyone just stop. Calm down, please,” he added firmly. 

And they did. The commotion stopped and heads turned his way, probably because no one really thought it was a good idea to get the typically pretty chill and soft spoken Doctor Banner too worked up. “Perhaps if you all shut the hell up, they can explain.” Bruce then turned to Clint, and Natasha by his side, giving them meaningful look that said something like ‘for the love of science please tell them what they want to know before they’re at each other’s throats again’, but he may have read into it a bit too much.

“Right, so, Blackbriar…” Clint started, hands fidgeting nervously with the sleeves of his sweatshirt. He didn’t at all feel comfortable discussing this with so many people- some people he didn’t know as well as others- gathered around. 

Natasha stepped in front of him, turning her back to the others- Steve in particular- and she was signing quickly. ‘However much you think you need to tell them, I’ll stand by it.’ She gave him a reassuring, slow nod, which he returned, a little jerkily and hesitant, and guilt and confusion twisting his heart all up inside him, but he was also so, so thankful.

He took a shallow, sharp breath.“Uh, it’s kind of all levels of classified-”

“Don’t you dare,” Tony started.

“And personal-” he said, glaring at Stark.

“You know, this reminds me of when we were trying to ask you questions about what the hell you were doing, and then you decided to drop us out of the sky for it,” Tony remarked, arms crossed defiantly, all sarcasm and snark with an eye roll on the side.

“Excuse you, I seem to recall that working out just fine,” Clint bit back.

“Oh yeah, just fine,” he drew out, voice dripping with sarcasm. “You never clarified why you chose to go all Maverick on us-”

“Because that missile had a smaller turn radius than the Quinjet and it was going a hell of a lot faster,” Clint said, losing patience. 

Tony rolled his eyes, turning to the man beside him. “Rhodey, tell him that-”

“Sure, ask Rhodes what he would have done, why don’t you. Or don’t, actually, because you aren’t aware of half the situational factors that went into making that decision.”

“Woah, woah. Leave me out of this one-” the poor guy stepped back, hands up in surrender.

“A straight drop without deceleration while still giving the missile a target that accounted for its either thermal or motion radar homing was the only solution I saw to the problem, so that’s what I did, and oh, look, here we are,” he countered, voice raising in volume and matching sarcasm with sarcasm, “just fine and dandy.”

Tony paused for barely five seconds, gears in his head turning as he gave it some serious consideration for a moment and then came away looking a little- less, defiant. “Ah, well.” He bit the inside of his cheek, weight shifting uncomfortably.

“Yeah. Here’s an idea. How about, for once, you guys trust me that I know what the fuck I’m doing. I’m not completely incompetent.” He shook his head, backing away. “You know what? Forget it. Just forget it.”

He was angry. Yeah, he was. Maybe he shouldn’t have been, but in that moment, he’d had enough, and he just wanted to get out of there. Get away from everyone standing there, looking at him like that. Before he even knew what he was doing or where he was going, he had extricated himself from the group, shouldering past Sam and Thor and he was heading for the stairs before anyone was calling after him to wait, to stop. He shoved the heavy metal door open and disappeared, letting it fall shut behind him.

Natasha slipped back from the others and leaned against the cabinet, arms crossed and frowning down at the floor. “Great. Thanks guys. Really appreciate it,” she said, sounding more tired in that moment than anything else, but the sarcasm was evident.

Tony looked a little alarmed. “What- I didn’t mean-”

“Yeah, I know, Tony,” Steve said, sighing. “Yesterday was a long day, and I think we’re all still on edge. I’ll go talk to him-”

“No. You won’t.” Natasha interjected. “Let him be.”

All eyes were on her, and Steve gave her a look that begged explanation, but she didn’t say anything more, not yet anyway.

“Then do you care to explain this Blackbriar nonsense?” Jane asked.

“No. It’s not my place.”

“AIM is creating a biological weapon of potentially mass destruction. We don’t really have a lot of time,” Sam said, crossing his arms defensively.

“I recognize that, but it still isn’t my place. I know you all didn’t think much of it, or perhaps it was because you weren’t thinking, but you don’t need to know everything. Some secrets are better left unsaid.”

Tony laughed, shaking his head. “Now what kind of spy bullshit is-”

“Tony,” Steve said sharply, cutting him off. “That’s enough.” Steve, of all of them, seemed to consider what she’d said most intently, or at least he was willing to acknowledge there might be some truth to her words.

“We’ll discuss this later. Right now, we’ve at least a month and a half until AIM is anywhere near ready to create the weapon and put it to use, if the timeline still holds,” Natasha said.

“The timeline we’re working on hasn’t changed,” Bruce added, pulling out his seat and returning to it.

Natasha gave him a shallow nod, saying, “Then we aren’t in any immediate hurry.”

“Alright,” Tony said, resignation reading in his tone. “I’ll go get Jarvis started on digging AIM out and hacking SHIELD.”

“Tony,” Pepper hissed, trying and failing to keep him out of trouble like always, bless her. 

“Look, at this point, I think Fury would be disappointed if I didn’t give it a go. Rhodey, Peps, come on, let’s go hack an immense, nonexistent government organization of hyper-paranoid spies.” Tony motioned for the two to accompany him, and with some grumbling, they did. 

The others took a hint and quickly dispersed, leaving Natasha, Steve, and Bruce alone in the kitchen. 

“It’s a sore spot for him.” Steve gave her a confused look, waiting for her to elaborate. “He has this recurring notion- unintentionally, for the most part- that the team doesn’t trust him. Partly because of the circumstances of this team coming together in the first place, and partly because he’s terrified of fucking up and proving that he’s expendable.” To anyone else, Natasha wouldn’t be so open, but Steve and Banner, she trusted to be reasonable- to know enough to keep it to themselves and to not throw it back in either her or Clint’s face. 

“What? That’s-” He hesitated, not quite sure what to call it. Ridiculous of course. He was a vital member of the team, no matter how they hadn’t started on great footing, by no fault of his own, but finding words for what he wasn’t sure he was trying to say was difficult. Natasha continued however, saving him the trouble.

“He’s only human- the both of us are. Take a look around this team, Cap. Superhuman or godlike abilities, or a genius intellect, billions in funding, and the iron man suit.”

Bruce shifted at the table, tilting his head when he looked at her. “From that perspective, I understand what you’re saying- I do. But what does that have to do with this, ‘Blackbriar’, whatever you were talking about?”

“We all have a past, some more grey area than black and white. Owning up to it, especially to everyone like that, isn’t easy. Things were… complicated, and messy, and while they weren’t necessarily mistakes, they could’ve gone better,” Natasha said, pushing off the counter behind her and beginning to walk toward the elevator. Stopping before completely turning her back on them, she added, “I’ll going to find him and piece together what exactly we know regarding AIM. We’ll talk later.”

Steve and Bruce nodded in agreement, and making her way toward the elevator, she was gone, polished metal door sliding shut behind her.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

She found him in the second place she thought to look. Of course, on any other day when the wind was quite as fierce or temperature as cold, she would have found him on the roof, either sulking in the back far away from the edge and in a blind spot from the windows, doors, and cameras, or perched right out on the edge, daring misfortune to do its worst. But no, instead, she found him in the gym, high up in the rafters, leaning against the back wall, one leg dangling haphazardly down to the side.

She knew that he was aware of her standing beside the sparring mats some seven meters below him, not that he acted like it. Leaning her hip into the wall, she glanced up, waiting. Rehearsing the several different directions that the conversation they were about to have could take in her head, she wasn’t sure which she liked better. She knew they needed to figure out what they, and through them their team, were going to do about their current mission- that being extracting some just revenge where AIM was concerned- but then there were more personal, and perhaps more pressing matters to discuss. In particular, them. 

For considering herself an expert on reading and interpreting social interaction, on understanding people, Natasha was at a loss on how last night had gone from fine, to leaving her not sure where she and her best friend, her partner, the man she cared more about that anyone else, who she knew better than anyone else, were left standing. She intended to find out though. And she was not letting this, whatever it was, some sort of misunderstanding or miscommunication or last minute episode of doubt, do any long term damage. Clint meant too much to her for that.

“What happened after I left?” Clint asked, monotone voice carrying down from above her.

“You know, more bickering. I told them we’d figure out exactly what we actually know about AIM or any leads and get back to them later tonight.”

“They were good with that?” Surprise worked its way into his tone this time.

“I wasn’t giving them an option.”

“Ah, now I get it.” There was a long moment when neither of them said anything. “Thanks, Nat. I shouldn’t have left like that.”

She shrugged, not that he could see her from his vantage and her angle below him. “It’s fine. That was getting out of hand anyway, and you needed space, time, to wrap your head around it.”

He might have said something under his breath, an indiscernible, low mumble, but she didn’t quite catch it. He would repeat it though, if he’d intended for her to. A moment later, he continued. “And Tony?” he winced- she could hear it in his voice. 

“Tony followed your lead and went off to go hack SHIELD or something like that. He could have just asked me for a backdoor entrance, but he’s too far gone for that- has to do it himself the hard way,” she sighed, stretching her arms above her head.

“Ha, well, he’s come a long way in that regard. Could be worse.” 

“Oh, you mean he could refuse to talk about whatever was on his mind, go about avoiding people who could help, and keep it to himself until he’d thought himself in circles and convinced himself he was wrong or stupid or missing the point on so many accounts when he should probably have just tried using some good old fashioned communication in the first place? Yeah, he could be worse,” Natasha said, voice a faux pleasant, upbeat ring- her own favorite flavor of sarcasm. Obviously, she wasn’t talking about Tony any more.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence before he said anything. But even when he did speak, it was a quiet, barely audible, “Yeah. I guess.”

“Now are you going to let me up or are you going to come down? I know you moved a rope up there last month.”

He shifted to get up onto one knee on the rafter spanning the ceiling, then fluidly lifted himself up to stand, balanced lightly on the balls of his feet as he stepped across the 4 inch steel I-beam. Each movement, from the placement of his feet to the shift of his weight, intentional and precise. He stopped at the junction of a crossbeam separating itself at an angle, around the base of which a nylon climbing rope was wound loosely. A minute later, it slithered down and the last five feet or so of it landed with a dull thunk and lay coiled on the mat on the ground. Clint was short to follow, pulling the sleeve of his sweatshirt over his hand to prevent rope burn and sliding down in quick succession. 

Then they were eye to eye, both standing there, silent and still in the cavernous room. She didn’t give it time to get awkward. Didn’t give him the chance to change his mind and bolt. “You’re a coward, Clint Barton.”

No looked like she’d physically struck him across the face, shifting a half step back. She could see the clench in his jaw, the falter in the steady rise and fall of his chest. Then he nodded, one jerk of his chin. “Never claimed to be anything else.”

“Stop running from me.”

A breath, a dry swallow, his blue-grey eyes still locked on hers. “ ‘Kay.” 

Whether it was she who had closed the distance between them or him, she didn’t know. Perhaps both. But what mattered was that next thing she knew, she had her arms locked around his middle, pressed against him, his arms a comforting pressure around her. And there was relief. Like something breaking free in her chest that she hadn’t realized was caged. 

“Are we okay?” she asked, muffled into his collar.

“Yeah, Tasha. I’m sorry- god I’m sorry.” He never should have gone off like that, shouldn’t have walked out, shouldn’t have gone there. That much he knew. “It’s okay. We’re alright,” he answered, head ducked down to her shoulder as he pulled her closer. And he so, so wanted for that to be true. But they were pretty good at lying, he remembered. Even to themselves when they wanted to. Thing was, he wasn’t sure which case it was.

“Shut up, Clint. Just let it go, okay? Nothing good came out of yesterday. We were all of us messed up. Just put it behind us.”

He was slow to respond, finally agreeing. “Okay,” he murmured into the crook of her neck, the stray curls of hair escaping from her loose bun tickling the side of his face. “Okay.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

They were sitting side by side on the ground, backs against the wall of the gym. They hadn’t really left, not since she found him sulking in the rafters. As of thus far, no one had intruded upon their secluded corner of the tower, so there wasn’t any reason to. Natasha was sitting cross legged, hands resting on her knees and looking far more relaxed than Clint felt. Head tilted back and staring at the ceiling, he tapped his fingers in an off-beat rhythm against the knee he had pulled toward his chest- a nervous tick of his. 

“It’d our best lead, given we don’t have any.”

He closed his eyes tight for a moment, wishing it weren’t true. “I know that.”

“So we have to follow it.”

“I know that too.”

“And that means the others deserve to know.” When he didn’t respond, she continued. “We don’t just work alone anymore. Fury’s been sending us on less and less assignments like the old days. Sure, part of that’s because it’s too easy for someone to recognize us- too much risk involved- but part of it’s because we’re part of something… else. This team. It’s all different.”

“Do you ever regret it?”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Getting involved with the Avengers?”

“Yeah.”

“If I wouldn’t have, I might not have gotten you back.” He glanced sideways at her, an apologetic half smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “No I don’t regret it.”

“Hmm. Even if we don’t get any of it back? If this is it? Us, Avengers, for the rest of- whenever.”

She sighed. “Yeah, I think I’d be okay with that.”

“Yeah. Guess so,” he agreed, letting his head fall back against the wall again. 

Another silent moment passed. “You changed the subject, dammit.”

He shrugged halfheartedly. “Oops.”

“I don’t think there’s any getting around this one, Clint. But it’s not like we have to tell them everything about Blackbriar and, your time there.”

“Problem is, I’d rather not have to tell them any of it.”

“I know,” she said. “It’ll be alright. They’ll understand.”

“They’ll understand? Seriously?” he asked, incredulous, voice rising in volume. “I highly doubt that.”

“Clint, they’re our friends. They know-” she cut herself off, unsure as of how to proceed. “They know they you and I have, complicated, pasts. We’ve never pretended to be anything we’re not. Not with them.”

“Yeah, so how’s that gonna go, Nat? How do you tell them, tell Captain freaking America, ‘hey, by the way, a few years before I met you guys, I was working as an assassin for six months through an private security firm called Blackbriar that’s actually just a front hiding the fact that it’s the go-to place for anybody who's anybody that wants someone else dead. Yeah, something tells me that’s not gonna go over well.”

“You were undercover, Clint. And SHIELD arranged all of your marks through third parties to solidify your cover and to remove people that were on SHIELD’s black list anyway. You know that. I saw to it personally- you know I did. And Coulson oversaw everything. It was all by the books,” Natasha tried to reassure him, but getting a distinct sense of deja vu; it had been years since Blackbriar, and years since they’ve been through this, but there they were again.

“Technically it was by the books, but that doesn’t mean there was nothing wrong with it. If it were all fine, Blackbriar wouldn’t still be up and running today. We would have shut it down and SHIELD would’ve taken everyone into custody. But no, instead, SHIELD saw it was too valuable. It kept drawing in bigger fish that the boys upstairs wanted to go after, so Blackbriar slipped through the cracks. Hell, Fury’s got everything he wants- constant watch on Blackbriar and its contractors, plus he gets updated on whenever someone interesting means to pay to have someone killed or someone interesting gets a bounty on their head. Win win situation I guess.” He laughed, dropping his head into his hands. It wasn’t funny.

“Fury would have Blackbriar dismantled in a heartbeat if the information they pulled from it wasn’t worth more good than the damage it did- I know it sucks and it doesn’t make it feel any better but that’s how it is, and that’s how we left it years ago when we walked away from it in the first place.” 

He shook his head. “Ha, you sound like Coulson did.” She didn’t know what to say to that, but he didn’t seem to expect anything from it, so she let it go. 

When Clint had gone undercover, Natasha had been there for ever step of the way. SHIELD had created a backstory- taking unsolved and unaccredited hits and disappearances over the years and spinning them together with ample holes in the timeline and grey areas to make it believable, to show ‘he’ covered his tracks. When he’d entered the criminal underground, they knew they were playing the long game, but still he wasted no time in diving right in. Coupled with SHIELD’s well placed, behind the scenes prods and rumors, and Clint’s creating a name and place for himself, Aaron Cross was born. 

For six months, Clint had been that guy. While Natasha was acting as his in-field handler, sometimes a shadow and sometimes Cross’ s on-again off-again fling, making sure everything went according to plan, that he was physically as safe as they could manage and keeping an ear to the ground to make sure she knew first if anyone ever questioned his cover (and no one ever did), Coulson was there, quite possibly keeping him sane. 

They had both trusted the man not only with their lives, but trusted him that they were doing the right thing, playing criminals, murderers, the types of people they stopped. They had both escaped that life, which arguably was the reason why slipping into that role was so easy. Clint had told her that once that it scared him how easy it was to step into Cross’s skin. He had the skills, the know-how, sure, but actually becoming this person he’d never wanted to be, he;d wished it was harder. What he’d said was the worst part? He’d based a lot of Cross’s mannerism and behavior on people he’d knows. He never said one of those people was his father, but Natasha wasn’t an idiot. 

Six months of sniper’s perches and sighting through the crosshairs, from dive bars to VIP nightclub lounges, back alleys to back rooms to boardrooms, and Clint, Aaron Cross, had carved out a name, a reputation, and a high seat in the criminal underworld hierarchy. 

Aaron Cross was still alive. Still a viable cover identity. Just retired. That’s what SHIELD had everyone believing. That’s where Clint wanted him to stay.

Though they wouldn’t be bringing Cross out of retirement, it still required Clint to dust off the cobwebs. It wasn’t a part of his life that he enjoyed recalling. Or sharing. With anyone.

“I meant what I told you before.”

“What?” he was pulled away from his thoughts and turned his head to look at her. He frowned, confused as to what she meant.

“Whatever you tell them- however much of the truth- I’ll stand by it,” she promised. She may have been there for those months Clint was working through Blackbriar, gathering information and forming ties SHIELD could use later, but it hadn’t been the same for her. It wasn’t her place to tell secrets that weren’t primarily hers.

The look he gave her said more than he could have managed with words. “Nat-” He shook his head. “Secrets have a way of getting out.”

A pause. “They don’t have to.”

“But they do anyway.” He sighed, staring again at the ceiling as if it may have held all of the answers he was looking for. “I appreciate it, I do. But if Steve, Tony, everyone, are gonna know, they’re gonna know everything. They’ll either figure it out or go digging or something’ll slip- and I want it to be on my terms.”

There was a long silence after that, stretching minutes into what felt like hours. It was far from relaxed, but it wasn’t anxious or contentious. More like, whatever was going to happen, was going to happen. That was settled.

“Okay,” she said, nodding. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudo, Comment, subscribe and tell your friends! Yay!


	8. compromise and bargaining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unhealthy relationship issues  
> Unhealthy coping issues  
> Unhealthy self-value issues  
> Christmas and homesickness  
> Oh my...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, happy holidays!   
> Oh, yeah. I'm back.  
> So I know I kind of disappeared off he face of the internet for a while. Apologies. But I've got everything under control now, and I'm really excited to return to this baby. I've put too much work into her to let her die only half realized.  
> Also of note: I borrowed some names and surface level stuff from other non-Avengers related media that some of you may recognize; please not that it is really just the name and the general negative connotation of it that I'm borrowing. This is not a crossover fic in any way (unless you count the weird mix I've got going between the MCU and comic-verse, then yeah, it is).   
> So, this is kind of a shortish chapter, sorry, and I can't give you any sort of definite schedule as to when I'll post, beyond me trying to shoot for once a week, sorry again. But I hope my long absence hasn't driven you guys away :\

A few years back (before Blackbriar and all that shit and well before his Avenging days) when Clint only had a regular old job at SHIELD to worry about- a job that consisted of more reasonable hours, what was usually a predictable schedule, and significantly less near-death experiences and extraterrestrial encounters- he had spent some well earned vacation time in Karachi, Pakistan. Yeah, he got it, who the hell vacations in Pakistan? But that’s what SHIELD’s files indicates at least. Except, thing was, it wasn’t really vacation time, just like Karachi wasn’t really a place anyone wanted to go for some R and R. Plus, it wasn’t like he’d ever done anything so horrible in his life as to earn that week in hell. No, Fury had definitely been punishing him with that one.

Now, exactly what he’d gotten up to there (it involved a Saudi prince a.k.a. warlord, his daughter, an open bar, a lot of prostitutes, an informant, a decades old rivalry, an impromptu wedding, and a gatecrashing Nigerian gun-running cartel) was a story in its own right for another day. However, Clint did pick up some valuable lessons from that little black mark in his books. First and foremost, just about anyone can make a pretty effective and cheap C-4 knockoff with some plaster, petroleum jelly, break fuel, sodium nitrate, and a few other special ingredients he didn’t want ‘just about anyone’ knowing, thank you very much. Secondly, when someone walks into something (or happens to be sent into something) with only half the facts and just as many intuitive leaps here or there to connect the dots, nobody gets to be mad about the fact that it’s going be a closed casket funeral.

Before Clint was prepared to open up the chapter of his life involving his time working as a gun for hire and put it out there for everyone he knew to see (or at least for the people whose opinions of him he actually cared about, to see) he wanted all of the facts. Up until then, he and Natasha had been working off of speculation and intuitive connections based on what they knew from years ago. If it was all true, and he was unfortunately fairly sure it was, then they would need the information there anyway. But more than wanting to fill in the gaps, having the files on hand would make it so much easier to explain. More likely than not, Steve, Tony, and the gang would end up just wanting to read it for themselves, and even as much as that thought made him want to crawl out of his skin, like physically get as far away from all of them and the Tower as he could as fast as he could, it would be better than having to tell them every dark, gritty detail himself. 

Still, he recognized there would need to be give and take on that front. Getting said files would likely require his team’s help, but recruiting said help would probably require an explanation, and so there he had it, the chicken and the egg scenario. Which would come first.

But the plan was, step one: access SHIELD’s files on Blackbriar, stretching back to his time there when SHIELD first began gathering intel when the company got on their radar, and moving through the paperwork all the way to the present day, as SHIELD still kept a close eye on things, even if they rarely acted on any of the chatter they picked up. (Unless, of course, it was considered relevant, meaning it involved the assassination of a very high value political or economic target, or it would result in mass casualties at what was deemed ‘unacceptable loss’ of civilian life. But it was knowing things like the threshold of what was considered ‘acceptable loss’ that made it hard to sleep at night.) 

One little caveat, however, was in gaining access to the files. It was the dark operations like this that provided reason enough for SHIELD to keep this kind of thing off the books. And by, ‘off the books’, Clint meant off any and all digital record, anywhere. Technically they didn’t exist. And for everything that ‘didn’t exist’ in SHIELD, it followed very strict, very precise guidelines. Exactly one hard copy- the original- with all relevant casework, data, information, and evidence, would be kept under lock and key in cold storage. He didn’t know much more than rumor and widely accepted superstition regarding the place, but he wouldn’t need to. Blackbriar was still an ongoing case and needed to be more readily accessible, so it would be in the burn room of the district where it originated. Meaning, that the files were right there in New York, at the very SHIELD operations division facility to which he reported at least weekly.

Burn rooms though… they’re tricky. Essentially, it’s a giant solid steel box which functions as a storage vault on one of the deepest, most secure, highest clearance basement levels in the facility. Inside the room you’ve got walls lined with individual, embedded security boxes like a bank vault. Except, the Pentagon turned down the installation of one because they thought it was “overkill”. 

Everyone on the very short list of people with access have to match retinal and fingerprint scans and enter the eight digit code, which rotates every 24 hours, just to get in the room. Without the proper codes and scans, the door would be hands down impenetrable. The thing looks like it could withstand a nuclear blast (and might just to made to… he wasn’t sure on that). No cameras because SHIELD likes its privacy when it comes to the sorts of things that go in a burn room, but motion detection and pressure sensitive floor panels? Why not. But the best part would be the reason for calling it a ‘burn room’. That being, if any of the safety precautions are triggered, it doubles as a furnace. It gets pumped full of raw oxygen, then there’s a spark, and the intruder gets fried while everything stowed away inside its proper compartments stays safe, secure, secret. 

Clint had been inside one of these things exactly once in his life. And, he may or may not have theoretically, temporarily, gotten a peek at the blueprints (which were equally restricted) for one in the past. Other than that and the well known rumors, however, he was in the dark. 

All of that being said, his current situation was not a very desirable one. He and Natasha couldn’t just break into the New York SHIELD facilities most secure vault and steal files they most certainly were not allowed to have. Yes, they’d pushed boundaries and bent rules in the past, but it didn’t matter what sway they had with the higher ups or how good they were at their jobs or even that they worked with superheroes now… it would not be good for them. Even putting that aside, it was assuming they could break into the thing within the day, with whatever equipment they had on hand, and not get one or both of them killed. In short, for a lot of reasons, they needed an alternative route.

“Fury doesn’t want us anywhere near this thing- not until we’re called in, anyway.” 

Natasha nodded her head in agreement. “Would it be entirely revolutionary to just ask to see them?”

“After how many years, and SHIELD- Fury- hasn’t cleared anything that could potentially risk compromising SHIELD’s hold on Blackbriar.” Natasha gave him a look. “I know Fury’s on our side. I trust the guy when it comes to sending us into shit and pulling us out. But the guy obviously doesn’t want to touch Blackbriar with a forty foot stick.” 

She was silent for a moment, considering it and getting a read on him. He was agitated, becoming moreso as the minutes ticked by, but then that was no surprise. All in all, knowing her partner, and having first hand knowledge about why everything Blackbriar related pushed him way beyond his bullshit tolerance level, she thought he was handling the imminent exposure of the deepest darkest parts of his file to their friends and coworkers quite well. 

Natasha frowned. “Alright, but we’re not breaking into a-”

“Yeah, I know. Stupid idea.”

“Even if we don’t physically break in- even if we get them through proxy, someone else with access- it won’t go unnoticed.” 

“I don’t think we’ve ever been in that kind of hot water,” Clint admitted frankly.

“Which means the only way to get the Blackbriar files is through Fury. With his knowing consent.”

He was at a crossroads of not knowing whether to find the situation horribly depressing or terribly laughable in hysterically not at all funny kind of way. “Um, remind me if I’ve forgotten any, but assuming torture and straight-up murder aren’t options doesn’t that only leave only blackmail and bribery?”

“Compromise and bargaining,” she corrected.

“Oh, really? And here I was thinking that was an awful idea.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Further discussion ensued, riddled with crushing sarcasm and more than one reference to past operations and mishaps which would more than likely make them utterly unsuccessful in their venture to get Fury to grant them access to the most classified of classified files which they needed. Despite the overwhelming lack of optimism, they had arrived at three conclusions.

Firstly, they needed access to SHIELD’s files on Blackbriar in order to find and trace the undoubted business-related, contractual and financial connections to AIM. Those connections would give them multiple avenues to locate and shut down AIM’s labs and bases, operations, and allies, hopefully preventing a massive bioterror attack.

Secondly, the only way to gain access to those files was with Fury’s knowledge and permission, for so many unsavory reasons. However, because SHIELD’s active and constant, very secret and very secure monitoring of Blackbriar gave SHIELD so much information and forewarning about so many planned massive attacks, high profile assassinations, and the occasional rise and fall of governments, the likelihood that Fury would hand over those files and put this incredibly valuable intel source in Blackbriar at risk was almost nonexistent. 

Thirdly, files or not, Fury’s help or not, regardless of whatever the current situation was, someone needed to tell the team about Blackbriar, because it was definitely the gateway to stopping AIM’s plan for catastrophe. 

And that really sucked, Clint thought as he slipped through the hallways, avoiding cameras (because Jarvis) and other nuisances (like people) that he didn’t want to deal with. He was feeling cornered, or put under the microscope, his whole life, full of questionable choices and regrettable actions, ripped out of safe storage and put on display. He found himself sitting in an empty conference room, spinning slowly in a wheeled chair and staring down at the cell phone he flipped over and over in his hands. It was one of the smaller rooms on a barely ever occupied floor that just seemed to take up space. Really, it was barely more than a box with a nice table, six office chairs, and an overhead light that flickered faintly in a way that would have annoyed him if he paused to offer it a second thought. but hey, when he had a whole tower to wander aimlessly, this was one of the less weird places he’d ever found himself in.

His attention returned with the screen lighting up and displaying a new message. From Matt. Great. He really hoped he didn’t want to give Lucky back already because the dog ate his cane or glasses or something- tLucky had an unfortunate habit. But no, he’d texted a picture, which Clint thought was weird because the dude was blind and all, despite superhuman senses, and photography wasn’t really his forte. 

When he opened it though, it brought a rueful smile to his lips. Matt was in the picture, sitting on what looked like the floor of his apartment besides a woman he’d never seen- a strawberry blonde, thin lady with a nice smile- the both of them in the middle of a mess of Christmas decorations and boxes. Between them was Lucky, looking utterly pleased with himself, decked out in a santa hat and reindeer antlers combo, a red sweater that was too big for him, and draped in colorful Christmas lights. Matt and the lady looked like pretty damn pleased with themselves also. 

The text that followed read ‘Your stupid dog ate one of my socks’. Ah, well. Some things never change. He wasn’t about to do him the service of responding, but he did save the picture.

A few moments passed in silence. He turned the phone over in hand a few more times, and on random impulse, dialed in a familiar number.

On the third ring he was about to hang up, the nerve failing him, but then the tone cut off, replaced by a woman’s voice- a cheery voice with a pleasant ring to it, like she’d picked up the phone mid-laugh- but not the voice he was expecting, which was somewhere between mildly inconveniencing and alarming. “Hello? Who is this?”

Clint didn’t respond, and debated just hanging up. Maybe he misdialed. But then he heard someone else, another woman, speaking- more like yelling, but not upset, no, laughing, smiling, he could tell- on the other end of the line, and that was the person he’d wanted to talk to. “-oh my god, give me back my phone you cretin. Give it- hand it over-” what sounded like a tussle ensued, both parties laughing and shouting at each other over the increasing volume of music. 

“Hello? Anyone still there?” More than a few colorful yet still seemingly light-hearted insults were exchanged on the other end of the line between phone owner and thief.

Clint snapped out of his moment of hesitation.“Kate?”

“Clint? Is that you? Oh my god what the hell took you so long to call? I thought you died or something,” she scoffed. “Wait no, I take that back. That is not a challenge or a dare, knock on wood, please don’t die. 

“Hey Katie. Um, I’ll try not to, thanks. But you know, you could have called me if you were worried.” He spun the chair around idly, staring off at some distant speck on the ceiling.

“Ehh-” there was a pause, background noise pulsing in and out with the waves of music. “Yeah, I’ve been pretty busy is all.” She sounded a little guilty, or maybe that was just him.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been busy too. Very. You know, because the supervillains and evil plans don’t take vacations.”

Perhaps that had come off a little bit harsher than he’d intended, because there was another pause, this one more silent and heavy. “You know, you said you were fine with me leaving for a while- you convinced me to go, really.” She wasn’t even angry or ruffled in her usual way, just sounded a little more concerned than the moment before, and he was kicking himself. “But if something’s come up, or you need help w-”

“No, no, it’s fine- Kate, I didn’t mean that to sound- I’m not- ugh. No, sorry, I just wanted to check in. See how you’re doing.”

Kate, bless her, was more insightful than he felt like a lot of people- mostly him- gave her credit. “Clint, are you okay? What’s going on?”

I’m beginning to realize you might have been right when you told me this thing with Natasha might blow up in my face and ruin one of the best things I have, AIM has this master plan to release a disastrous weapon on the world and a lot of people could die, and everyone that I like, respect, and consider to be my friends are about to find about about some really terribly shit and will never look at me the same way, he briefly considered saying. “Yeah, fine. Just tired is all, and a little on the bruised side, but mostly fine.” Now, redirect. “How’s the coast? Have you been arrested yet? Woken up with a hangover someplace you don’t recognize? Stopped an armoured car heist by an Elvis impersonator? You know, you’re not getting the whole experience until you’ve done at least that.”

The music was loud again, and it was really wreaking havoc on his ability to clearly distinguish what Kate was saying. “No, none of that… I really don’t think you’re the best person to take advice from in that regard, Hawkguy.”

“Oh? And who have you found to replace me?” he joked, though he’d admit, it did twinge a little uncomfortably. That was probably just the irrationally clingy, chronically anxious and self-doubting part of him speaking. See? Who needs a therapist when you’ve got that sort of self awareness. 

“Replace you? Unnecessary. Just catching up with some friends who are a much better influence than you.”

“Oh yeah? Anyone I know?”

“You remember America Chavez? You only met her that once- with the whole exploding little slime alien debacle? You have to remember than.” There was laughter in the background, the sound of music and people and general merriment.

“Oh, god. Yes, I remember that. Won’t ever forget it. And her? Yeah, her too,” he nodded, then stopped when he released he was alone in the room.

“Well, we’ve been hanging out, fighting some casual crime, eating some of the world’s best shaved ice, finding some of the worst Avenger look-alikes on the boardwalks, the works.” There was some sort of disturbance on her side of the line, people yelling in a significantly less friendly way than before.

“Kate, where are you? Is something going on-”

“Oh, shit,” she sighed. And then seemed like she was yelling at someone else as her voice carried over the line. “No, don’t do it- don’t- I SWEAR TO GOD just let the bouncers do their job for once in your life you-”

“Kate?”

“Okay look, I’ve gotta go save my girlfriend from herself, I’ll call you back soon, say hi to Lucky for me, bye-” And the line went dead.

“Okay, bye…” 

Clint sat in silence for a moment, staring blankly at the phone in his hand like it had offended him. Oh, okay. Now she had a girlfriend in California to go along with the crime fighting and shaved ice and people watching. He sat there for another moment, the silence and isolation of that small bland room he had moments ago found security in now bearing down on him with ruthless oppression. In that moment, he would have given just about anything to be back in Bed-Stuy. Maybe with Kate or Natasha putting up Christmas decorations up and Lucky chasing tennis balls and chewing on the stuffed reindeer like every year. But that would probably just turn into a mess of lights and wires and ornaments everywhere. Kate would be perched on the cabinet stealing his coffee, not helping at all, and Natasha- well, he just wanted everything to go back to normal, before all this weirdness, the uncomfortably stuff, worked its way between them somehow. 

He exhaled sharply, channeling his attention into a deep breath and rolling his shoulders while violently suppressing any sort of stupid daydreaming he had going. It wasn’t helpful. He wasn’t going to stop feeling like shit, like his world was coming down in flames around his head, until he got up the nerve to actually doing something about it. He shoved his phone into the pocket of his jeans and pushed himself to his feet, leaving the dull conference room and the flickering light and the slowly spinning office chair behind him, storming through the halls with significantly less stealth than before.

So fuck it, Kate can have her stupid girlfriend in freaking California and Matt can keep the stupid dog and have his goddamned Christmas party thing. He didn’t care. Why should he care? Not when he had the goddamned fucking world to save, right? Because he just had to go join the fucking team of the century, the Avengers, folks.

He shoved past the doors, leaving them swinging on their hinges behind him as he made for the elevator. Fucking superheroes. Overrated. Would not recommend. Everything was so much easier and less painful, less deadly, when he was just a regular old nine to five SHIELD agent. 

The elevator door glided open before he could even slam the button, which annoyed him. A lot actually. He was becoming increasingly pissed off, some tiny rational part of his brain realized, as he worked himself into quite a state. There was definitely a ‘fuck it, throw caution to the wind, dive in head first, brace for impact’ kind of vibe going. And while he had successfully, probably temporarily, managed to scrap whatever sense of self-preservation he had, he was going to make the most of it and get all this shit over with. He didn’t care. He didn’t care anymore. Jarvis, where the fuck is everybody at?

He stopped in the elevator. Wait. How much of that had he said aloud? 

The doors closed and the elevator started down.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Jarvis had directed him to one of the mid-level floors with the lower security labs- the ones for all the things with less potential to be violently explosive. When he next stopped, he was standing outside the glass wall which separated hallway from workshop. His approach hadn’t been noticed, though he saw Tony and Steve leaning on their elbows over a heavy steel table near the back of the room in what looked like a quiet conversation. He stood there in the shadows at the edge of the glass for a moment, tactically observing the scene, assessing risks and dangers, and formulating a plan of approach by habit. 

But that was just another distraction really, second guessing, an attempt to slow himself down before he possibly ruined everything. But nope, no stopping this train wreck. No real plan, no exit or emergency strategy. He knew what he needed to do, he had actionable intel, and know he needed to do it. He might be a selfish bastard, but not to the extent that he would risk a global bio-terror attack just to keep his skeletons tucked away nice and orderly in the closet. 

He forced himself to move again, away from the camera blindspot he hadn’t even intentionally located and away from the security of the shadow and the wall to his back, not in his usual manner. He entered the numbers into the keypad without thinking and plowed through the doors without even the pretense of stealth. Both Steve and Tony’s heads turned his way, mouths ajar slightly and confusion evident in furrowed brows. Upon further examination of the workshop, an inkling of a bad idea that he was going to do anyway began to form, and he made a beeline for the back corner.

“Clint-” Steve began, Tony beating him to it.

“Are you alright? You look kind of…” he trailed off.

“Unsettled,” Steve chose carefully, crossing his arms and turning to face him. Clint quickly noted the trademark ‘Captain America is concerned for you’ look.

“Am I alright? Huh, let me think about that.” Clint rolled his eyes. “No, not really, but that’s fine. Nope, everything’s just awesome. Fantastic. Couldn’t be better.” Even he recognized that didn’t make any sense, but whatever. He had arrived at the bar along the back wall and went for the upper cupboard.

Tony managed to look both guilty and curious at the same time. “Look, ah, I’ve been told that maybe an apology is in order. For some things earlier-”

“Forget about it, Tony.” Goddamn, he knew it was in here somewhere. He moved on to another cupboard down the row, scanning shelves and moving shit out of the way in his search.

“Or- and this is just me thinking out loud- we could not, and deal with it like adults…” Tony said, perplexed, and now Clint had two concerned superheros to deal with. He decided to ignore that last comment though. “Is there something I can help you find?”

“Yeah, where the f- oh, nevermind, I’ve got it.” Clint spun back around to face them, victorious, a full bottle of undoubtedly expensive vodka with an improbably high alcohol content in one hand, glass in the other.

“It’s a bit early for that, don’t you think?” Steve voiced, though didn’t make a move, which was the smart play. Clint didn’t respond. “Clint, what’s going on?” he leveled. “This is very unlike you.”

“There it is,” Clint laughed. “Seriously, I mean, trademark that shit.” He unscrewed and poured, coughing and wincing at the unexpected burning sensation after downing too much in one mouthful. “Oh damn, this is unhealthy is what it is.”

“Yeah, that’s one word I might use,” Tony said, but Clint was pretty sure he wasn’t talking about the vodka.

“Okay folks, this is how it’s gonna be. I’m gonna tell you all about Blackbriar and how I know about it and what it has to do with AIM’s bullshit right about now and everything you might want to know, and then we’re gonna have question time and I’ll answer anything and everything you could possibly want to know with brutal honesty, absolutely no lies- not even by omission- and without a trace of sarcasm. But,” he clarified, cutting them both off, with a gesture “everything I get the ‘Captain America is disappointed with or concerned for you’ look from you,” he pointed unceremoniously at Steve, “or any bullshit, bad humor, sarcasm, or funny looks from you,” he directed a condemning look at Tony, “then I’m gonna drink. You know, because I’m all about those unhealthy coping habits.”

Steve exhalled. “Clint, I really don’t think this is a good idea-”

“Ah, we’re off to a great start,” Clint said with forced smile, poured enough for a shot, and choked it back. “This is, entirely unpleasant,” he admitted without remorse.

Clint set the glass down on the smooth metal surface of the table wit ha little too much force and twisted around to pull up a stool, on which he perched. He turned around in a timely enough fashion to barely catch the backend of a look exchanged between the two men, but opted to pretend he didn’t because he was pretty sure he would be drinking enough as it was in the very near future.

“Okay,” Tony said with a shrug. “Shoot.” Clint appreciated the nonchalant air to him in contrast to Steve’s obviously deep misgivings. 

“I’m not done yet though,” Clint said, dry swallowing a little bit at the weird aftertaste. “I recognize this is probably a once in a lifetime opportunity for you two, but…” he hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Just, be careful about what you ask. Please. Not to be cliche or anything, but you most definitely won’t like the answers to a lot of it. And afterwards, if I’m still part of the team-” he laughed, though no one else did (that was alright though, it wasn’t all that funny, he had better) “- then I’m gonna need your help to get Fury to cooperate. That’s the only solution Nat and I could come up with.”

There was a weighted pause, during which Clint tapped his fingers without any sort of rhythm over the glass of the bottle in an almost threateningly sort of way, like the ‘react unfavorably and I’ll drink myself into a coma’ sort of way. 

Yeah, this was not his finest moment. Good thing he probably wouldn’t remember much of it.

Steve brought a hand up to his head, running his fingers through his hair; it was the tell Clint had long ago picked up on as an indicator of submission. “Alright,” he shrugged. “Fine. If this is what you need to do.”

Clint frowned. “Consider this one a warning.” Steve scoffed at that, re-crossing his arms. Afront though, Clint could deal with. He spun the glass around on the table, watching the light reflect through it for a moment. “One last thing though. I’m making this deal with you two for a reason. I’ll be discussing this once, and only once. Later, you can tell the others whatever you like- I don’t care- but I won’t do it. Not again.” He paused, staring down at the table before he continued. But unlike before, his tone lacked the alternating facade of hysterics and disinterested sarcasm. “That might be pretty shitty of me to put that on you guys, but that’s just how it is.”

Steve reached for a stool, settling in for the long haul, and Tony followed suit. “Alright. Tell us about Blackbriar.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

In all of their defenses, there was significantly more liquor left in the bottle by the time they had reached the questions part than Clint had expected. He was beginning to feel the effects too, although in a pretty minor way. The numbness helped though. It was a welcome distraction, and made talking about how he used to kill people for hire- even if he was technically working undercover and doing SHIELD’s bidding- a lot easier to do. But if it was a good thing or a bad thing that he wasn’t more inebriated, he wasn’t sure of yet. There was still time, though. 

“Wait, so was Natasha in the field with you, or all behind the scenes?” Tony asked to clarify.

“Sometimes, yeah, in the field. Whenever I needed a pretty face and a small dress to get me into somewhere or to lure off a mark. Her cover was pretty unclear ‘cause she wasn’t always in the picture. We had kind of an on-again off-again relationship going, but that’s why it worked. Don’t offer the full story, but just enough, and people fill in the gaps with what they expect it to be. Makes ‘em more comfortable, makes it easier to get close to ‘em.” Clint swirled the remaining liquid in the glass around, glaring at it distastefully. He could go for a glass of water.

“What kind of relationship?” Tony asked all too innocently. Pour. Lift glass. Throw it back. Swallow. Brace for the raw burning feeling on its way down. “Oh come on, it’s a valid question,” he complained.

“Whatever it needed to be, whenever it needed to be it. It was pretty bad, actually. I wasn’t a stand up guy. But then, no one expected me to be, so that’s what I was. That’s not an excuse though,” he hurried to add. “Not in a long shot.”

“And when you say ‘a mark’, you mean,” Steve paused for a half second, looking for the words, or maybe he just couldn’t bring himself to think for too long about the fact that his teammate, a guy he trusted, used to be the kind of guy they stopped. There was a Shakespeare performance’s worth of irony there.

“People I killed.” Clint took another drink, then made it double. 

Steve frowned, shaking his head. “I didn’t say anything, I didn’t even look-”

“Nah, you didn’t. That one was for me.”

Tony leaned forward, inhaling like he had something to say. “But those were people that SHIELD, that Coulson- who was your handler at the time- made sure to put on your list, right? You weren’t just, doing that to anybody. It was people SHIELD would have done the disappearing act to anyway.” He didn’t think there was a question there.

“Right. You do that for months on end, and tell me if that fact makes it feel better. Tell me if you feel like you’re just on another op for SHIELD-” He stopped, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Sorry. Yes. You’re right, but only technically.” He kind of wanted to slink off into a dark corner and never be seen from again. 

There was another long pause as Steve and Tony absorbed the information and mulled it over. Clint would be the first to admit that it was a lot- a lot- to take in. He folded his arms on the table in front of him and rested his head on his forearms. They had been at this for an hour. Him talking, them reacting, him trying and failing to not let it get to him, then the asking questions, having to answer, to clarify, to get into all the gritty details. It was almost done though. He didn’t know if he was supposed to feel like he had been given a clean slate after spilling his guts about every awful thing he’d done for Blackbriar, and for SHIELD by association, but really he just felt like crap. In hindsight, adding alcohol into the mixture was probably an idea very typical of his pretty shitty track record.

“So, in essence,” Steve began, and Clint could see the wheels turning, “this private security company Blackbriar is a front for a massive hub of illegal activity of the wetworks variety-”

“All blood contracts lead to Blackbriar,” Clint huffed without even looking up.

“And SHIELD already has the up to date information on Blackbriar that would reveal connections with AIM and offer a lot of insight into what AIM’s plans are-”

“You got it.”

“And SHIELD has that kind of information in large part because of your time undercover, working your way up the ranks.”

A pause. “I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”

“But using that information would put SHIELD’s sources inside Blackbriar at risk, and it would jeopardize all of the actionable intel they get from it, so you think Fury won’t risk it.”

Clint sat up and went to lean back in his chair. Except that was before he realized it was a stool, without a back, and then he was flailing a little bit to catch his balance, gripping the edge of the table to stabilize himself while both Tony and Steve reflexively started forward to grab him. He was, a little off balance.“‘M fine, I’m fine,” he said, swatting them away. “But yeah, everything’ Nat and I’ve ever known about Fury suggests he isn’t one to risk that kinda shit, ‘specially when it comes to, well, us.” He made a general gesture at the three of them.

“So what do we do to convince him? Particularly considering how he wants us to stay away from this thing for now,” Tony asked.

Clint frowned, struggling to focus his gaze. “We?”

“Yes. ‘We’, us, this anticlimactic association of supers, talents, and company that should never be in the same time zone together, much less the same building,” Tony said with a heavily enunciated eye roll. “Jesus, we’re not kicking you off the team.”

“Shame,” he mumbled. “Woulda been easier.” He wasn’t lying. And while some rational part of him knew that he wasn’t actually the monster he held himself out to be, and knew that the others, just like Natasha, wouldn’t see it like that, hearing that, hearing the affirmation, even if dripping verbal irony, just hearing that after he’d spilled his guts to them over the course of the past hour, was enough to lift so much goddamn weight off his shoulders that he didn’t even realize he was carrying. Still, he wasn’t about to tell them any of that. He didn’t even know how to put any of it in words anyway. “Deal was no sarcasm from you,” Clint mumbled, reaching for the vodka only for Steve to intervene. 

“No, that’s enough of this.” He moved it and the glass far out of reach, not that Clint was about to protest. He was well on his way to hating the stuff. “You talked, we asked questions, you answered, now we’re done. You need to sober up, because we have a lead, and now we have work to do.”

“Ha, whatever. You guys seriously underestimate me. If I learned one thing in Odessa, it’s how to handle the spirits.” He did however distantly realize he may have been slightly affected by forcing down a quarter bottle of vodka. “Great place, Odessa. Nice waterfront property,” he mumbled.

“Well, I’ve still got some questions,” Tony interjected, the overall mood lightened. “First being, what the hell happened in Odessa. Second being, are you and Romanoff an item?”

Clint saw Steve turn, interest peaked at the question, and both he and Tony watched as Clint choked on air. “Wh- what?” was all he managed to get out, but he was pretty sure the shock and confusion written across his face said all he needed to. The question, coupled with his already precarious state created by the vodka and the unveiling of skeletons, blindsided him, and it felt like he was hit right in the gut with a baseball bat.

“You and Natasha? Dating? Romantically involved?” Tony continued, as if the question needed clarifying.

“Why do you ask that, Tony?” Steve questioned, definitely curious and a little suspicious or being the last one to know things.

“I know what the fuck you meant, I’m just wondering why the fuck you asked it,” Clint cut in a little too loudly. “We work together, she’s my partner and-”

“Sure, but that doesn’t mean you can’t mix business and pleasure a little bit on the side. Pepper’s the one that brought it to my attention, and I thought she was crazy, but the more I thought about it, the more sense it made.” Clint filed that away for later. “Everything about you two-”

“No no no, with SHIELD it does mean there are very clear lines you don’t cross,” Clint corrected. “The line is drawn,” he said, sweeping his hands in a straight line across. “And why the fuck can’t she just be my friend without you making it weird? What’s wrong with platonic relationships, people?” Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. Was that too much? Goddamn the fucking vodka. This was problematic. Very problematic. And he was afraid he’d already betrayed too much, without being able to think quite right or really get his normal grip on his expressions.

Steve shook his head, beginning to say “Nothing’s wrong w-”

Clint cut him off, continuing. “I’m gonna tell her you said that. You can just deal with her.”

“Or, you could not, and just answer the question,” Tony offered, shrugging.

“I did answer the question.”

“Actually, no, you didn’t,” Steve said as it dawned on him, raising an eyebrow at Clint.

“No, I did. But I don’t really remember what I said, and I think I’m gonna throw up actually…” Tony moved for probably a trashcan or something, but Clint held up a hand for him to wait. There was a pause, he swallowed a few times, but got everything under control. “I’m good. All good. I think.”

“So, we’ll take that as a no?” Steve asked.

“Don’t put words in his mouth,” Tony complained.

“I don’t think it’s fair to be giving him the twenty questions in the state he’s in,” Steve countered, offering Clint a stable hand up. “Come on, Hawkeye. Get up.”

Clint grumbled and rolled his eyes at it, but accepted the Captain America sized shoulder to lean on until he better caught his balance nonetheless, grumbling his thanks. “Are we going to go introduce everyone to my closet full of skeletons now? And here I thought it was Christmas coming up, not halloween.”

“You jokes get worse with alcohol,” Tony said, holding the door to the workshop open for them. 

“No, we’re not,” Steve said. “You’re going to your floor. Then Tony and I are going to let everyone else know about Blackbriar and how it’s connected to AIM and SHIELD, and we’ll work something out.” The elevator door closed behind them, and Clint moved to lean a shoulder into the wall for support. “They don’t need to know the details about what you did before for SHIELD. If I’ve learned anything in the 21st century, it’s that the past is the past, and it stays behind you.”

When the doors clicked open on Clint’s level, he started forward on more stable footing. He really wasn’t all that wasted, just a little woozy. He half turned to address the two men still in the elevator. “Um, thanks, I guess.” They nodded in return and the doors closed. For putting up with him. A chronic mess. A perpetual downward spiral. 

Yep, he really had the best friends.

He turned to assess his surroundings- his floor on the tower. His eyes wandered from the little kitchen area to the direction of the bathroom and bedroom. Cold shower, food, nap. In that order maybe.

Everything was familiar and where he left it, but still not quite right. It wasn’t really home. It wasn’t Bed-Stuy. There was no Lucky running around and destroying whatever he could get his paws on, no cheesy holiday decorations lying around, no Kate refusing to sit on actual chairs and drinking all his coffee, no neighbors who were actually just normal, nice people, no Russian tracksuit mafia to chase off, and no Natasha to swing by every now and then. His stomach twisted a little at the thought of her. 

Not only did he not know what was going on between them- really, he had no idea what to call them, and that was part of the problem- but know other people were starting to ask questions, which made it more complicated. It would be one thing if they knew they were committed to this, to both each other and their work, but was one worth saving if the other was destined to crash and burn anyway? Everything about this sucked. 

She was there in the tower somewhere. He could go find her, or ask Jarvis to ask her to come to him, but it still wasn’t right. Something was wrong between them and he hated it and only wanted to fix it, but he didn’t know really what ‘it’ was. He’d broken something- no, they’d broken something- and he didn’t know how to set it right. Usually when that sort of thing happened with bones, it never healed back the same way. Scars too. Except with scars, sometimes no amount of stitching or bandaging could make things quite right.


	9. collision course

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow it just keeps getting worse for our favorite assassins. Sorry.   
> Also, sorry again for my absence. I am the worst, I know. Life stuff though, am I right? I'll finish this eventually, I swear.
> 
> Basically a lot of feels, some plot building, some foundation maybe for later drama/fics, and so much swearing (warning siren) really more than usual.
> 
> As always, thanks for comments and kudos and subscribes. Honestly I came back to write this chapter when I did because I got a comment out of the blue and suddenly felt motivated. So here goes nothing.

When Clint had retired to his floor the night before, it really hadn’t been all that late. He alternated between raiding the refrigerator, napping, watching infomercials and shitty tv, and aimlessly staring out the window until he looked up at the clock to see it was 3:15 in the morning. It’s not like he ever slept too well anyway. Still, at that point he collapsed unceremoniously on his bed, tossed his aids aside, and asked Jarvis to turn off all the lights before willing himself off to a shallow and restless sleep.

He woke up a little after 7:00, and after a good 20 minutes of trying to stop thinking about everything that had happened and everything that was going to have to happen - with Natasha, AIM, Fury, Blackbriar - and nearly making himself physically sick over it, he gave up and went to shower. The good news though was that any slight hangover he was expecting from his unhealthy coping the night before had been pretty much mitigated and was nothing but a dull cotton feeling in the back of his head due to the hours of napping and eating and pacing and bad tv and then sleeping. So that was something.

He slipped on his aids. “Has anything interesting happened, Jarvis?”

“Not especially, Agent Barton, though that depends on one’s particular connotation of the word ‘interesting’.” 

Clint rolled his eyes. What, the hell, even. “Any developments in the case? Word from SHIELD? What did Stark and Rogers do last night after I last saw them?”

“Following your departure, Captain Rogers called a meeting of all company, yourself being the exception. Discussion topics included the Blackbriar Corporation’s relation to AIM, yet there have been no significant developments in actionable intelligence. Captain Rogers has however requested your presence in the kitchen at your soonest possible convenience.”

“So, right now?” He palmed the nape of his neck, feeling that twisting anxiety sensation crawl back into his stomach.

“Now would be appropriate.”

Clint threw on a sweatshirt over his bare torso along with a worn pair of jeans (like every pair he owned) but took time to locate socks and his boots and to tie them properly- a habit and the best practice for a necessary quick escape. He ran a hand through his damp hair to make it lay right and tried to judge just how hobo-ish he looked in the shiny metal of the elevator but gave up soon enough when the elevator doors clicked open on the communal floor. 

Hell, he should have asked Jarvis for a heads up. Just about everyone was there, standing, sitting, or leaning around the kitchen island or spilling out into the sitting area’s couches and armchairs that were filled with way too much stuffing to be comfortable. He would be lying if he said he didn’t feel a little bit ambushed. He now lacked intel on exactly what everyone else knew, lacked a proper plan of action, and had lost any element of surprise or discretion on what exactly his course of transition would be, because eyes were on him now. Shit.

Except, maybe that was a slight dose of paranoia and a heightened sensitivity to social cues speaking, because just as quickly as he felt the many pairs of eyes on him, they wandered off back to whatever muddles conversation or mug of coffee or bagel had previously consumed their interest. That was… not what he was expecting?

He shuffled out toward the coffee maker more on autopilot that anything else in perhaps a non-too-extraordinary way to the casual observer, but anyone with a trained eye or experienced all things Clint Barton would know he had just that much more tension between his shoulder blades, or just that much more intent in every slightly too cautious, slightly too aware step. And then he felt it- that eerie yet familiar feeling he could never quite describe- and glanced to his right just in time to see Natasha’s eyes flicker away, back down to the blueberry bagel lying untouched next to a slowly cooling full mug of coffee.

He pulled out a stool next to Thor on the far side of the counter, with too many bodies between them to communicate and at an angle were awkward eye contact could be best avoided.

And so the dance of the spider around the hawk and the hawk away from the spider continued. Until it would be resolved with hell knows what- murder or a disappearing act or awkward limbo forever, one of the three.

Thor said something by way of greeting and Clint gave a weak nod and a half smile in return, realizing he had completely forgotten about the coffee, his current mission objective (a stupid one, he knows), but gave up caring about that when Steve came from his blind spot behind him and leaned into the counter on his elbows, dipping to eye level with Clint’s hunched over and closed off form.

Steve had the audacity to throw him a bemused, if questioning, smirk and a raised brow. Like he didn’t know why Clint was being just a little bit cautious that morning. Please. Clint shot him an ‘I am not amused’ side eye in return, only earning a more fully formed smile in true Captain America fashion- all bright and white and very punchable. 

His SHIELD appointed therapist would probably be alarmed by how often he fantasized about punching people. But hell, Natasha’s favorite calming exercise went something like going to her happy place beside a nice stream, picking up a nice rock, and bashing someone’s skull in with it, so really it couldn’t be that outside the norm-

Oh there his mind went again, drawing up the pleasant memory of him and her, in the rafters some years back when she shared that interesting bit about herself. Stop it. He had made some stupid joke and they had nearly laughed themselves right off the beams and onto the floor that was a tad too far below them for that to be comfortable. No, stop. Seriously. He reminded himself that other things to worry about. AIM. Blackbriar. Imminent death and world destruction. His personal life could chill on the fucking ice for a minute.

“- hey, you okay?”

Clint jerked back to look at Steve, who- shit- had been saying something. “Yeah, yeah, fine.”

“Cause if you need to take the morning, after last-”

“You insult me, Rogers. What do you take me for-” he huffed, indignant, then reconsidered “- actually don’t answer that.”

Steve had the good grace to let that one roll off with something between a laugh and an exhale, rather than take it with a grain of some psychoanalytic bullshit like he was usually prone to do. Or to get all overprotective or some shit. Jesus, it was like the guy took it upon himself to be their team leader and their self-appointed therapists… but then… Clint seemed to roll with that last night, so maybe that was a little un-cool of himself to criticize Steve for trying.

“Tony and I had called a meeting last night. Everyone was there,” he paused, “present company excluded of course.”

“Jarvis filled me in. Nothing productive?” He was both itching to and terrified to ask what exactly they discussed, or more accurately, what about him they discussed, and Steve saw right through that.

“Nope, not much.” A reassuring smile. Okay, so for now, the whole team didn’t have to know they were relying on an ex-hitman to watch their backs. Cool, cool.

Tony had pulled himself up from one of the overstuffed chairs and injected himself right into their little conversation. “We have, however, reached a verdict.”

“What now?” Clint now saw the rest of the room turn back in to focus on the relevant, how-to-avoid-AIM-releasing-mass-destruction-across-the-earth topic of discussion. Sam was at his shoulder that Steve was not occupying, Thor’s standing figure towering behind him, everyone else- Bruce, Natasha, Darcy, Jane, Tony- gathered in close. 

“This Blackbriar angle is definitely the way to go. If they are as nefarious and connected as you spy kids seem to think-” Clint treated him to a pointed look, “-which, mind you, the fact that Jarvis hasn’t been able to bypass their online security measures despite running a nine-point encryption interface since last night because their company hard drives are run on a completely internalized system, seems to support-” Tony shrugged with a forgiving smile, “- we should most certainly be able to get plenty of leads on AIM’s base and laboratory locations as well as an idea of their intentions by tracking the money and the, ah, ‘purchases’.”

Bruce set his mug down gently on the marble countertop. “We just need access, which as Tony explained-”

“-Did he explain? I didn’t hear any explaining. Not in English anyway,” Sam said, arms crossed against his chest.

“Shut up Wilson, of course I explained. Nine-point enc-”

“Tony, Sam, enough,” Steve cut in, stopping them while they were ahead. “Basically, we need internal access that we don’t have.”

“But if SHIELD has that access, I don’t understand why they wouldn’t cooperate. They are just as invested in stopping AIM from putting this bio-weapon together as we are, aren’t they?” Jane posed, clearly to innocent and good intentioned to understand the dark political machinations that run through SHIELD’s underbelly and the weighing of pros and cons on the massive fucking scale that must be inside Fury’s head. 

Except to put it all on Fury wasn’t really fair. Even he was accountable to, or at least susceptible to, hell, Clint didn’t even know half of what really went on in SHIELD. Still, he knew enough to be careful though. He was never really a company man, never q as trusting or blindly willing to follow orders as they would have liked. Fury, he trusted, don’t get him wrong. SHIELD itself though, not so much.

“They are- Fury is- but there is more to consider here than just AIM. There are,” Steve paused as he struggled for the words, “long-term consequences, and powers at play with potentially equally disastrous effects, if I understand it correctly. SHIELD will wait until all other potential solutions have been exhausted.”

“Where exactly is this coming from?” Clint asked, this analysis going a little bit farther than last night’s alcohol-aided disclosures.

“From SHIELD.” Clint’s head jerked around once more in the other direction, eyes narrowing on Natasha, who had been silent up until that moment. “I spoke with Command this morning.”

“And?” Clint didn’t know how he felt about her keeping him out of the loop. This was the sort of thing they did as a team. Not the Avengers, but them.

“Command is not willing to grant us access to the files SHIELD has on Blackbriar, or their channels of communication in the Company itself.”

“So we get nothing? No help from the super secret spy factory?” Tony asked, definitely a little put off at that. He wasn’t the only one.

“Correct.” Natasha’s outward facade remained steady and emotionless. Not cold, just empty. She was actively ignoring him now, refusing to meet his insistent stare.

And so the spider fled from the hawk.

“Were you able to contact Hill? Or Fury for that matter?” Steve asked.

“I was informed quite definitively that Hill was removed from the case and temporarily reassigned, and that both she and the Director are out of contact.”

“That… is not usual,” Clint mused, concern etched into his pinched brow. 

“Sketchy as hell is what it is,” Darcy blurted out before looking a little sheepish at interjecting her thoughts into the rather more formal exchange.

“No, you’re right, that too,” Clint reassured her. A steady monologue of ‘fuck, fuck, fuck’ was running on repeat, around and around the carousel in his head. ‘Command’, which wasn’t really one actual person you could arrange a conference with or catch off guard around the watercooler or corner in the bathroom, embodied everything about SHIELD that gave him an uneasy feeling. 

“It is also worth saying that we have been ordered to stand down and await further instruction,” Natasha informed them, much to the distaste of everyone in the room, made evident by the many sharp exhales and outbursts of disapproval.

“Sure, let’s sit here, play Go Fish and twiddle our thumbs while we just wait for AIM to unleash WMDs on the open market,” Tony said, his voice dripping sarcasm, exasperated with the very thought. “We would always go back to finding my goddamn Quinjet though- I liked that thing...”

“Settle down,” Steve directed at Tony, everyone responding. “Clint, Natasha, do you trust ‘command’?”

“Are you asking me if I trust it? Or if in my professional opinion we should obey their formal request,” Natasha said with a carefully tactical tone in the manner of one protecting deniability, a perfect eyebrow arched ever so slightly.

“‘Formal request’?” Bruce questioned, not the only one who had caught her peculiar word choice.

“Technically, since you ask, SHIELD has no formal jurisdiction over the Avengers. Not with a legitimate means of enforcement that is,” she informed them innocently enough.

They all took a moment to fully consider the ramifications of that thought. It was Thor who spoke next, turning to Clint beside him. “And what of you, Clint? You and Lady Natasha would know best. Do you trust these orders, or believe we should abide by them?”

Clint almost snorted, and with a lot less tact than her, responded with “I’m gonna have to take a hard pass on both of those.”

“What exactly is this, ‘command’?” Jane asked.

“Good question, not really sure, not really supposed to know, it’s just Command. It isn’t a single person, or a title or anything like that.”

“So, not to be totally trusted?” Sam asked like it was obvious.

“In my capacity as a private citizen, not affiliated with SHIELD or the Avengers in any way, I’d say ‘hell no’, except I can’t say that officially because I’m not even sure if I exist as a private citizen anywhere, so I didn’t say that,” Clint answered, shrugging, “because contrary to popular opinion I do care about both my state of employment and my well-being.” Out of the corner of his eye, he clocked Natasha giving him a subtle look. 

“Right, your lack of a response to that question is so noted for the record,” Tony said, heaving a sigh. “I get it though. If you can’t physically shoot it, don’t trust it. That’s my philosophy too.”

“The hell it is, Mr. I Create AIs That I Trust More Than My Human Friends In My Spare Time,” Sam quipped.

“Sure it is, I just adopted it. Just right now. You can’t-”

Clint’s mind had wandered off again at the mention of shooting things. He could do with escaping to the range for an hour or two. Stress relief. Could that be considered more unhealthy coping habits? Probably.

His train of thought jumped without his bidding from the range to his arrows and targets and arrows in targets and his quiver and his bow, and the bow he lost on the Quinjet, which was a shame, but different types of arrows thought- gosh he loved arrows- like the ones that blow things up or grappling arrows or the ones that--

His internal dialogue, his thought process, his physical body, his very breathing, for the first time in his life, stopped dead in his tracks. He sat ramrod straight, eyes going wide, every single muscle tense. Holy mother of a fucking goddamn hell.

\-- His bow. On the Quinjet. Arrows. GPS tracking arrows. His quiver. The spare quiver he never uses. GPS tracking arrows in his spare quiver on the Quinjet.

On. 

The. 

Mother. 

Fucking. 

Jet.

...  
He was sure of it. Holy hell.

His reaction hadn’t gone unnoticed. “Um, Hawkeye, you okay?” Sam asked with a light laugh. 

“Dude, I think you’re forgetting to breathe,” Darcy piped up, and now he drawn a concerned audience to his apparent complete loss of function.

“Clint?” Steve asked, and the hand on his shoulder brought him back to reality. 

He inhaled sharply, hands going to grasp the edge of the marble tightly as he snapped him head up to look at Tony across from him. “The Quinjet. My compound bow. I left it on the Quinjet…”

“Um, yeah? I’ll get you a new one?” Tony started to speak.

“It’s the spare. Along with my spare quiver. With my arrows, Tony. GPS arrows. On the Quinjet.” It was the loudest moment of silence Clint had ever heard. “GPS arrows on the Quinjet.”

Stark swallowed visibly, then, on a quiet exhale, “Holy fuck.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Waking up that morning, Clint had expected a lot of things… But to be leaning against a crumbling brick wall in an alley at the back door of a frankly questionable dive bar with an unsavory clientele, even at 8:35 in the morning (which was impressive), was not one of them. Not by a long shot. 

Following his untimely epiphany and their realization that they could have been tracking down their hijacked Quinjet, its hijacking AIM assholes, and their kidnapped scientists this entire time, all hell had broken loose for about five whole seconds before Captain Rogers- and he was, completely, Captain Rogers in that moment, not his buddy Steve- slammed on the breaks of that train crash and managed to get them all back on track. 

Tony rushed off yelling something to the effect of locating his jet and some sort of math-computer-jargon, but it was hard to tell if and which parts he was saying to them, to Jarvis, or to himself. The rest of their team ran off the suit up for- whatever- but it took about 6 minutes in for Tony to relay the not so great news. 

He wasn’t immediately getting a signal. That in itself wasn’t surprising though. Those locators in his quiver weren’t meant for global tracking. Their radius was more suitable for tracking a vehicle through a city, not a Quinjet shielded with next generation cloaking and radiowave-disrupting technology which could be just about anywhere in the hemisphere. So, Tony had to resort to something about relying on loads of different receivers in government buildings and military bases across said hemisphere, accessing them a one at a time, to try and magnify a signal. Clint was pretty sure Tony was utilizing some not very legal means of “accessing” these things. Jarvis was running them at like a receiver per minute or two, but apparently there were a lot of them. So the result was the same: they had to play the waiting game.

It wasn’t like they were expecting to catch those AIM guys. No, they were definitely long gone by then. But they did feel pretty strongly about recovering their billion dollar really very special primary mode of transportation, and finding it, wherever it was, in whatever condition it was in, would be one more lead than they currently had. 

And so they waited. 

In that time, Clint had a moment of silence to himself to consider their sans-Fury, sans-Hill SHIELD operation status. None of it felt right. The Avengers had essentially been given the boot right off this exceptionally high profile, right up their alley case. It wasn’t like they were responsible for what happened at the facility. It sucked, but in the end, they put rescuing those people and avoiding blowing themselves to hell over stopping the bad guys. So yeah, it sucked, but Clint had mulled it over for a bit, and he could live with it he supposed.

Being blown to hell, and having buildings fall on you, was not fun. He was speaking from experience.

Anyway, in that time, he also decided he going to reach out to Fury anyway. Except he couldn’t, because Command was a sneaky son of a bitch, because he didn’t want to play the disappear-suddenly-and-get-thrown-out-a-week-later-having-been-thoroughly-reprimanded game, and because if Fury was out of the loop on this one he couldn’t necessarily just waltz into his office. The guy probably wasn’t even in New York anymore.

That left the Plan T option. Plan T came right before Plans U, V, W, etc, each a progressively worse idea than the last. Plan T was okay though, but it was just a one time thing. A non-renewable resource. It also left a pretty bad taste in his mouth due to… call it a personal negative association.

What felt like forever and a century ago, after the circus life lost all of its allure and broke a lot of his albeit minimal moral code of conduct, and after his dumbass brother left him hanging in the wind to get scooped up by the cops when they were hardly out of their teenage years, Clint met a dude named Agent Phil Coulson who became something of a lifeline and later admittedly something of a father figure (according to the times he read his shrink’s scribbled hand writing upside down from across the coffee table) or at least a replacement for his shitty version. That was of course until Clint went and got his brain scrambled and got Coulson killed by Loki but hey, that was a story for another day.

Point being, the first thing Coulson did was give him a burner phone. There was one number in it. It belonged to another phone just like it, this one belonging to the very same guy that would became his handler for the years that followed. It was for emergencies. It was a one time use kind of deal. After the first call, it’s no longer secure.

Except Clint never had cause or need to use it. There was always another way to contact HQ, always another signal for exfiltration, always another manner of reaching out in an emergency. He kept it with him on what must have been every mission for a year or two, but eventually, he just started leaving it in a shoebox in the bottom of his closet. 

After New York, after Loki- after the funeral he didn’t go to- and after Clint was cleared, he got called in to Fury’s office. That was when Clint learned that son of a bitch still had that second goddamn decade old phone with the single number keyed in it. Fury knew what it was. He asked him if he wanted it. Clint got up and left. 

Fury kept it, for whatever goddamn reason. It didn’t make sense, and he didn’t know why. It was in the box of crap (a.k.a. important stuff) that went with Fury between every office of every regional department he traveled to.

Yes, Clint had done a little snooping in that box.

So maybe this circumstance wasn’t the most dire. Maybe he was still just hyper-vigilant and semi-paranoid about everything that had happened. Maybe he was a little too unforgiving of Command. But reaching Fury seemed like an important thing to do.

Blacklisted as they were by Command, scrambling after a lost Quinjet that was just a single breadcrumb in a whole trail that seemed a mile long and endlessly complicated, and facing a legitimate threat to international safety that their SHIELD dispatch seemed just all too blasé about… Clint wanted to have a talk with the Director that didn’t seem to be directing too much right about then.

And so he texted that number- just a standard request for a meet- and lo and behold, he got a response. 

So there he was, leaning against the wall in an alley behind a dive bar in Brooklyn, hands shoved in the pockets of his coat, hood up, trying to keep his back to the sharp wind that ripped through the narrow alley occasionally as best he could while completely turning his back to the entrance.

Of all places.

The back door opening on rusted hinges caught his attention, a guy in heavy layers of nondescript clothing, hood up. Something about the way he moved though, the way he checked his six, his gait, caught his attention. That was the man himself, in person, which Clint hadn’t really expected if he was being honest.

“Of all the places, in the middle of goddamn December no less,” Clint complained from his little shadow as Fury stepped nearer.

“It used to be an Italian place. Times are changing, aren’t they,” he said in response, but it seemed less of a legitimate response and more like some sort of obscure yet meaningful message that Clint wouldn’t figure out the meaning to until two weeks later. “But it’s a good thing we didn’t come for breakfast.”

“The hell is going on, Fury,” Clint asked bluntly, posture stiff and closed off.

“I’m in the process of figuring that out myself,” he said, surprising Clint with his straightforwardness.

“Command-”

“I am well aware of that, Agent Barton. The question is, what are you willing to do about it?”

He paused. “You mean what is Steve willing to do about it.” Meaning what was the Avengers going to do about.

“The question could be interpreted that way.”

Clint decided it was way to freaking cold for treating the conversation like a minefield. “We found the Quinjet,” he admitted. “Or at least we will within the hour, Stark assures us.”

Another pause. “And?”

Clint took a painful, shuddering breath, cold air piercing his lungs. “It won’t help.”

“Probably not.”

“Why were we told Hill was reassigned and you were out of contact?”

“A good question. Looking into it.”

“Does Command have alternative objectives we don’t know about here?”

“Most definitely. Does that answer your question?”

He forced another breath out of his lungs. “One of ‘em.” A sharp breath in. “Why are you here in person?”

“Why isn’t Agent Romanoff here? I expected the package deal.”

“She’s busy,” he bushed off. “I want an answer to that one.”

“To give you this.” Fury unzipped his coat and pulled out a thin manila file, the corners of papers poking out slightly askew at the edges, and extended it to him. Pulling a hand from deep in the shelter of his coat pocket, he took it, glancing down at the unmarked cover. He returned his gaze to Fury, waiting for an explanation. “Everything you need to find what you want.”

Clint stared back down at the file in his rapidly numbing hand. He thought about it, weighed the odds, and flicked his eyes back up at the man standing not a few feet away. “You know we’re looking at Blackbriar.” It wasn’t really a question.

“It was the logical conclusion you would come to. Yes.”

“And you’re giving us the files?”

“No. You’ll have to get those yourself. And not from any skiff or burn room either.”

Clint unzipped his own coat with fumbling hands and shoved the file inside, pulling the zipper back up and returning his hands to his pockets. Gloves. Gloves were a thing. With that, Fury seemed to think they were done. He turned back toward the door, getting a step away before Clint called back, “Do you even have control over the agency you direct?”

Fury stopped, pivoting slightly on the inch of snow to look back at him, but didn’t answer that question either. “Just don’t get caught.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Where were you.” 

Clint nearly jumped out of his skin. “Jesus Christ, Natasha,” he all but hissed at her, tearing off his coat and throwing it over the back of the chair. “What the hell?” He dropped the file on the coffee table, having flipped through it long enough to pick up on just what Fury had in mind and why his parting words were “don’t get caught”. She hadn’t moved a muscle, leaning there quietly against the wall in the corner of his his own goddamn living room. On his own goddamn level of the tower. 

“You left the tower. I asked Jarvis when you disappeared. Where were you.” It said in too cold and monotone of a manner to pass as a question.

“What’s with the third degree?” 

“Why are you avoiding the question?”

Clint took a moment to assess the situation. First and most obviously, she was pissed at him. Or at something to do with him. Everything, from the tone of her voice to the hard set of her jaw to her flinty unforgiving stare to the way she put her weight on her right leg and popped her hip out away from the wall.

Great. Awesome. What the fuck did he do now? Her immediate abrasiveness rubbed him all kinds of the wrong way. Sure, he had probably started this whole problem between them, but now she was pissed and he didn’t know what set it off so he was pissed. It probably didn’t help that he didn’t try to conceal it, or make any sort of placating gestures.

“Because you’ve not given me five seconds to tell you or anyone before you decided to sneak into my living room in my apartment to ambush me about where the fuck I’ve been, looking at me like my existence has just personally offended you,” he said, voice raising at the end as the situation escalated.

If she was angry or frustrated or both before, now he saw a raw affronted look on her face. “You disappeared!” she yelled, starting toward him with a truly frightening way about her. “In the middle of all this shit! What as I supposed to do?”

“Maybe wait a few hours before freaking the fuck out? I was coming back-”

“-You haven’t always before,” she snapped, crossing her arms in front of her like a wall between them. 

“Well I was this time,” he snapped in return, mimicking her isolating posture. “Jesus Christ, I’m not going anywhere-”

“Well how was I supposed to know that?” she shouted, he voice breaking at the end and a strangled sob escaping her throat. Her stone facade had cracked.

All of the reckless anger and frustration drained right out of him. He took a shallow breath to respond but the words died in his mouth, and he let the breath escape. She was angry and she was hurting and it was his fault. It didn’t matter why. “Tasha-” he took a half step toward her, reaching out on impulse. 

“Don’t fucking touch me,” she snapped, backing away from him toward the elevator doors as an emotion that look terrifyingly akin to hatred swept across her face. Cold anger made her voice cut like a physical knife that she had just plunged deep into his chest.

He froze, and in a second she had turned and fled and she was disappearing around the corner and she was gone. 

He might have stood there shell-shocked for seconds or minutes or longer, running that brief but completely self destructive interaction through his mind over and over and over again, where he went wrong, how it escalated, what she meant, trying desperately to cling to those seconds but they kept slipping away and she was gone again and again and again.

He pulled himself back together with a shuddering attempt to breathe. Unbidden, the memory of his clandestine meeting with Fury and the file and their mission returned to him, but it all seemed so insignificant and quite frankly he didn’t care. 

He didn’t care. Hit the undo button. Go back. The brakes. Stop. Just stop. If he ever had any control over the nuclear collision course he and Natasha had been dancing around, he was hemorrhaging it now.

After approximately ten minutes of processing what happened, fifteen minutes of working himself up into a panic, followed by five minutes of self loathing, another five of depression while sitting on the couch in a nearly catatonic state, and finally fifteen more minutes of violently shoving it away to the back of his head and convincing himself of his mantra of ‘it would be fine, they would still be friends, she just needed space, she just needed time, it would be fine’, he managed to force himself up from his seat. He still had to finish this.

File in hand, he steeled himself, wiping away every visible trace of all the conflicting emotions raging around under his skin. Shoulders set, he asked Jarvis where Steve and Tony were in the tower, and finding they were both in Tony’s lab, he was moving on autopilot again, gliding silently through hallways and down stairs until he reached them. He didn’t feel like taking the elevator.

When Jarvis slid the glass doors open for him, he nearly jerked backward in his already tense state. It felt like his mind was racing a million miles a minute in one hundred different directions without his permission, when really he just needed to back up, calm down, and focus on the immediate task at hand. A pause, a breath, keep moving. Another step. He cataloged the subtly cooler wall of air and the adjustment of the almost too bright artificial light. It was quite, the air still, but not stagnant. He found Steve and Sam as well standing beside Tony, who was leaning on his elbows over the table, the glowing blue computer screen in front of him. All three were completely absorbed in whatever it was they were staring at, though from where Clint stood it only looked like a string of quickly changing numbers.

He alerted them of his presence by dropping the file on the steel surface of the table behind them and pulling a stool out to sit, the legs of it scraping along the smooth concrete floor. The three of them turned around, Tony more slowly than the other two men as he seemed almost reluctant to tear his eyes away from the numbers.

Clint noted that Sam looked him up and down intently, a question clearly written across his face, but Steve beat him to it. 

“Hey,” he said by way of greeting, his eyes flicking between Clint and the file before him. “What’s with that?”

“Plan B,” Clint explained. “We can’t get any actionable intel from SHIELD so we’re gonna go get it ourselves.” At that, Steve’s expression shifted to something between wariness and uncertainty.

It was Sam who spoke next though. “Clint, you okay? You look… a little off.”

Clint fixed him with a blank stare for a moment before blinking and shifting his gaze to somewhere off over his shoulder. “Fine.” Neither Sam nor the other two looked convinced, but then Clint wasn’t doing to great at keeping his outward facade together. He could tell. “Do you want to know about this or not?”

“I’d personally like to know where you’ve been off to for the last hour…” Tony said, spinning in his chair.

Clint glared at Tony. “I spoke with Fury.” He relaxed the stare, looking back between the others. “He didn’t actually do much talking- it was all very cloak and dagger, even by my standards. But I got what I needed.”

“Well, let’s hear it then,” Steve said, crossing his arms over his chest and planting his feet in a way that projected a ‘I am here to listen for the long haul’ vibe. 

Clint took a stabilizing breath and exhaled, getting his head back in the right place. “Well, Fury gave us a door in, but we need to use it. We’re going to have to get out intel on AIM’s movements and purchases and the like straight from the source.”

“What exactly are you saying,” Sam asked, tilting his head to one side and fixing Clint with a look that did not convey confidence in this idea.

“We’re gonna infiltrate Blackbriar’s headquarters and extract the information we need.”


	10. mass casualty event

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back again. Updating schedule will still be unpredictable. Sorry if you've been waiting.  
> If it helps, this chapter is so fucking long. And there is quite a bit of development going on.  
> But, uh, it is so much angst... and drama... and relationship problems...sorry. You win some, you lose some I guess?
> 
> Yell at me in the comments.

It only took a few moments for Jarvis to gather everyone- that being the core team plus Rhodes, who was in town and whose council Tony valued on matters like this- right there in the lab. Clint had only managed a basic explanation of what needed to be done due to constant interruption and general confusion as Avengers filed into the room, which was feeling increasingly smaller and smaller. Per the usual it seemed, chaos ensued.

It truly was ironic that in the midst of an alien attack on a major metropolitan area they could make every judgement call, predict nearly every external factor, and read every movement and call from a teammate in the field with the fluidity of a well oiled machine, however when it came to these unpredictable and more personal whatever-they-weres, chaos ensued, and no one had the patience or good sense to calm the hell down and actually let someone explain.

 “This doesn’t sound entirely legal,” Tony interjected.

 Clint rolled his eyes. He didn’t know why it was so controversial. “Well come on guys, it’s not like they’re an upstanding company or anything-”

 “-that doesn’t make it any more legal-”

 “I’d call it more ‘extra-legal’ than ‘illegal’, considering they’re the ones breaking the law like, every day, with the black ops super secret underground assassination thing and all,” Sam offered.

 “Yes, thank you!” Clint was grateful at least someone was trying to see his side. “Really, it’s due diligence-”

 “We aren’t authorized!” Tony cut in, losing his patience. “We can’t just wreak whatever havoc we want because-”

 “Maybe we should all take it down a notch,” Bruce tried.

 “Because Command is a shady, two-faced, blacklisting asshat?” Clint asked, voice dripping sarcasm, promptly ignoring Bruce.

 “Just because we think something illegal- even as bad as this- is happening, it doesn’t mean we can make that call ourselves, especially not right in the middle of New York,” Rhodes began, always the diplomat, talking calmly with his hands in a placating gesture as he tried to ease tensions. It wasn’t working.

 “Think?” Clint all but yelled, more outraged by the minute. He knew he should be mature and calm and reasonable about this, but on this topic, rational he was not. “I don’t ‘ _think_ ’ anything. I _know_ it’s bad. I know _exactly_ the kinds of illegal bullshit Blackbriar is pulling. They are just as bad as AIM, or worse-”

 Thor decided to give his hand a go at diplomacy. “Please, friends, perhaps we should move this discourse to the commons? Perhaps collect our thoughts-” The general agitation was not eased.

 “Why is it that we have the green light to go after AIM practically any time, anywhere, but we have to sit on our asses and wait for SHIELD to let us even get information from Blackbriar? It’s ridiculous!”

 Natasha moved slightly in Clint’s periphery, drawing his eye to her for a split second before he moved on. Natasha’s stone facade shifted in a way that he couldn’t decipher. All he knew was that she had moved past simply avoiding eye contact and keeping her distance and had graduated to avoiding him like the plague and pretending he didn’t exist. It, well, quite frankly it hurt a hell of a lot and he felt all twisted up inside over it. Like, an almost physically unwell feeling. And, fine, all he wanted to do was get away from it and go home.

 Home to that brownstone in Bed-Stuy, with Lucky and Kate and even those Tracksuit Draculas.

 He was pulled back to the present moment when Rhodes continued trying to reason with him, saying, “Blackbriar is a valuable source of intel for SHIELD-”

 Sam disagreed, and made it apparent. “We wouldn’t be shutting them down or disrupting SHIELD’s line, we’d just be slipping in and retrieving some intel on Blackbriar’s connections to AIM. ”

 Tony shook his head. “Blackbriar is, legally speaking, a legitimate company. SHIELD isn’t willing-”

 "Fury was,” Clint corrected. “He gave me the goddamn opening we need.”

“Fury may be but SHIELD isn’t. Whatever higher ups or forces that be, aren’t willing to designate Blackbriar as a target. And what’s more, law enforcement agencies, the government- the visible government- don’t even have Blackbriar on their radar.” Tony softened and looked genuinely apologetic for a moment. “I know how you feel about this Clint, and I know why, and that’s legitimate. I’m sorry but-”

 “Sorry? Were you not listening to a fucking thing I told you?” Clint looked back to Sam for a moment for some sort of back up, but of course he never told Sam, who, like the rest, was in the dark. “They’re terrorists. Murderers with a steady paycheck. They-”

 “It doesn’t matter, Clint,” Natasha broke her silence, her tone cold and steady, and edged with resentment- something he never thought he would hear her direct at him- that just about anyone listening could detect. “Physically breaching Blackbriar was never the plan.”

There was nothing subtle about the complete indifference, or even seemingly the dislike of him, that she showed, nor was Clint’s reaction subtle when it stopped him in his track, and sent him faltering back a half step away from her, like she had delivered a physical blow. He was reeling at the unexpected betrayal- and it betrayal it was in his eyes- immediately throwing up familiar barriers and barricades and stone walls around himself in a way he hadn’t around these people, his friends, in a long time, and certainly not around Natasha in years and years. To those watching him intently, it took less than two seconds to see his face go completely blank, his posture- having been guarded- to right itself, and to see every trace of emotion vanish.

“Not the plan at first,” Clint acknowledged with a clinical, similarly detached tone. “Then we learned it wouldn’t matter if Fury cooperated, because SHIELD- because Command- won’t. And we know that SHIELD doesn’t have the information we need anyway. So, the _plan changed._ ”

“You don’t get to make that call,” Natasha countered as she pushed away from the wall and inched toward him with a certain fluidity that made it seem almost unconsciously done, everything about her predatory body language, movement, and voice instilling a clear sense of danger in anyone with a survival instinct.

“I’m not pretending to.”

To say the room had fallen into an ‘awkward silence’ by this point, Clint having mirrored her aggressive posturing, their cold and piercing yet utterly blank stares meeting one another, was the understatement of the millennium. Everyone braced for impact; Clint could feel them shrinking away, saw them physically moving back from the warzone between the two, wanting desperately to put distance between themselves and this obviously highly personal, potentially highly explosive feud. The fact that they just watched the two friends they knew and liked shift in a matter of seconds into people they didn’t recognize, whose only fitting description could be ‘deadly’, only made it worse.

“It’s personal for you. You’re too involved,” she said, crossing her arms.

“Bullshit.” Whatever facades of cool, emotional voids they had were slipping.

By this point, even a brick wall would have picked up on the fact that there was so much more going on between Clint and Natasha than just the issue at hand, or even the entirety of this mission. Still, no one with any hint of self preservation instincts would dare breach the subject in a million years.

“It isn’t all on you Clint. Regardless of what happened, taking on Blackbriar isn’t all on you.” She shook her head, giving him that look. “We’ve been here before.” A particular rooftop memory came to mind.

“This isn’t about me. It’s about AIM creating a fucking weapon of mass destruction. It’s about everyone-”

“-there are other ways to fight AIM! Gathering intel is one thing, but a breach? What if someone recognizes you-”

“-with my reputation it wouldn’t be the worst thing-”

“-what if you recognize one of them?”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean,” Clint snapped, anger obvious.

“You know _exactly_ who I’m talking about,” she said. “And I don’t think you’re in a position to make that judgement call if you came across one of _them_ with a weapon in hand and opportunity on your side.”

There was an incredibly tense, heavy moment in which they could’ve heard a pin drop. The world had been chipped away, narrowing until all that was left was the two of them, locked in an argument increasing in hostility and indignation until they found themselves hardly a meter apart and verging on the point of violence. Nothing else, no one else, not a room full of two of twelve or two hundred people, registered.

But in that one fleeting second, refusing to break eye contact, emotions running high, Clint saw something flash across Natasha’s face he’d rarely ever seen. Regret. Then it was gone.

He saw it. But he found himself unable to care.

“You must think rather lowly of me Natasha,” Clint stated, tone flat and utterly unyielding as he took a step back, visible anger and hostility dissipating to be replaced by a blank slate. For all the world, he simply looked indifferent now. But a cold trace of malice remained in his eyes. Natasha saw that. He made sure she did. “Good to know where you stand, _partner_.” The sharp edge he put behind his last word cut like a knife. He meant it to hurt.

Natasha took a similar step away, emotions disappearing beneath the surface. “You couldn’t be more wrong.” She took a shaky breath, glancing around as though suddenly remembering the presence of the others they had forgotten during their rapid, explosive exchange, who had tactfully retreated away and made a show of minding their own business. “But go ahead,” she stated simply. “Do whatever you want.” She swallowed, eyes shining. “Just don’t make me watch when you do. I’m done.”

And she must have been, because then she was gone, turning her back, stalking away. The doors swung shut behind her.

She would never let any of them see the tears that began to fall.

Clint remained frozen in place, paralyzed. His breathing shallow and irregular, every hair on end, every instinct telling him to cut and run, to just get away, telling him that a million pairs of eyes were on his back, Clint felt pulled in a million directions, unable to follow any of them.

He had to go, though. He had to get out of this box, away from this audience. That he knew.

Without turning to look at any of the rest of his team or their friends, he managed to get out “Back in ten,” before he was forcing his legs, which felt like they were made of lead and itching to break out into a sprint at the same time, to move. He shoved through the doors, headed in the opposite direction that she took, and he was gone.

He didn’t know where he was going when he found himself nearly collapsing a few minutes later alone in a dark room, finally able to breathe, but coming in convulsive gasps, eyes burning. He didn’t know why, or how, he’d managed to get their either. Only that he did.

He did this.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

There was an element of shell shock in the lab following their two departures. Really, there were two similar yet individually nuanced reactions that the completely unprecedented storm of raw animosity and emotion garnered: the first being, what the hell happened, and the second, where do they go from there.

For a solid few minutes, no one said anything. They had no idea what _to_ say, or if the situation even called for commentary.

Then, however, Tony, in his usual way, managed the summarize all of it- the fight (there was nothing else to call it), the venom behind those words, the odd final sentimentality, the parting of ways, and the multitude of reactions the rest of them had to it.

“Fucking hell…” It was under his breath, barely said at a whisper, but the silence raging so loudly in the room allowed everyone else- Steve, Sam, Thor, Bruce, and Rhodes- to hear it.

“Yeah,” Steve affirmed, speaking up for the first time since Clint delivered that goddamned file and this mess started. “Fucking hell.”

Steve, who had been leaning against a heavy work table near the back and staring mostly at the concrete floor the entire time, looked up and at each one of them remaining. Normally, Steve would have gone ‘full Captain America mode’, as Clint called it, and shut the argument down well before it reached the nuclear state between Clint and Natasha that it did, but Captain America was completely lacking from the equation.

It was Steve Rogers who was looking conflicted and actively avoiding eye contact with the entire room during that heated exchange. Not Captain America. There was no decisive, take charge, man with a plan attitude here. And Steve Rogers, ironically, or seemingly out of character, was not too thrilled about being in the middle that particular fight. Not before the collision when it was a debate about what the plan was, and certainly not during the devastation which had been two of the closest friends and colleagues he’d ever known turn on a dime and try to tear each other’s throats out.

It was Bruce who spoke next. “This, uh, seems like the time to ask, I guess,” he began, fidgeting with a pen in his hands. “What exactly was that about?” He rushed to clarify. “I mean, most of it was obvious, but the bit about it being personal… Is there some sort of history here that we don’t know about?”

Tony and Steve exchanged a fleeting look. They did, however, acknowledge a consensus in that brief second. Steve inhaled, and proceeded with the utmost caution.

“Yes,” he said bluntly. “Yes, there’s a bit more to the story. I can’t tell you all of it because it isn’t mine to tell, but, yeah...” He paused. “Clint may be a little more familiar with this Blackbriar company than he, or than we,” he inclined his head toward Tony, “let on.”

Steve and Tony clarified what they could, or really what they felt comfortable with clarifying, about Clint’s prolonged stint undercover for SHIELD at Blackbriar. They didn’t necessarily say in what capacity he acted within the company, but given that they all knew what sort of business Blackbriar engaged in, it wasn’t any great mystery.

Still, no one dwelled on it. And in fact, they didn’t really care. More concerning by far were the not entirely predictable consequences, both short and long term, of what Tony dubbed ‘the spectacularly awful breakup incident’ on their team, its members, and all of their abilities to cooperate effectively and smoothly in the field, and at home. In short, there was a largely unspoken fear between all of them that somehow, Clint and Natasha had damaged their relationship beyond immediate repair at least.

If that was the case, they would each feel the waves from that incident in the foreseeable future.

Even with that topic covered, there was still the whole ‘stop AIM from creating a weapon capable of mass destruction’ thing, which honestly was beginning to feel like a nuisance. All seriousness of the thing aside, it was the first thorn in his side that Steve wanted to get off of his ‘to do’ list so he could focus on what was beginning to feel more and more like the more pressing issue: stopping his team- his family and friends and as of this century the thing he valued most in his life- from literally falling apart.

But before that could be done, they needed AIM out of the way. World first, then team. And so, the conversation shifted, uneasily at first, back to the largest and most life threatening situation at hand.

“I get what everyone is saying, and I recognize there is validity to both sides,” Steve started, “but what we seem to be forgetting here is that AIM has a weapon, or at least it will have one soon, with the potential for a mass casualty event, and SHIELD doesn’t seem to be in a position to stop it.” He looked at each one of them. “And there’s no question that we have to stop it.”

There was a moment of quiet shuffling as Steve’s words coming from his typical moral high ground settled over them.

“Look, you’re right,” he said to Rhodes and Tony. “We aren’t authorized,” Steve continued in a way which felt like the intro to one of his off the cuff speeches on heroism and patriotism and whatnot. “In fact, we’ve been told pretty clearly by SHIELD’s Command that we should stay clear of the issue. But if we don’t do something, and if we don’t do it now, a lot of people- innocent people- are going to get hurt. So I’m not acting in any official capacity here. And I’m not telling anyone to do anything they don’t want to do, or aren’t comfortable with. But something needs to be done, and it needs to happen now.” He looked around the room at all of them. “And this,from every way I’ve tried to see it, is the only avenue we’ve got.”

There was another heavy pause. Then Tony spoke. “What if we make it worse.” It wasn’t a question that needed answering, as Tony offered it like a simple possibility, a thought really, that needed recognition. “Whenever we inject ourselves into a situation, people get hurt.”

Steve looked like he was going to say something, but Tony help up a hand to stop him. “Now just wait a minute Steve, and hear me out. I know, often enough we’re called into an emergency, and by time we show up people, civilians and non civilians alike, are already in danger or dead or dying. But we aren’t talking about going into a situation like that. We’re talking about putting ourselves, and potentially others, and even the people you’re talking about AIM hurting, and who knows how many SHIELD agents of civilians involved in operations they are running off Blackbriar intel, all in danger in anything goes wrong. We need-” he shook his head, exhaling, “we need oversight. Some sort of accountability. What authority do we have to make this call on our own? Especially when not even SHIELD will green light it.”

Steve exhaled, inclining his head to Tony in a way that indicated he understood. “We can’t save everyone, but we try. And even then, sometimes we can’t know the best way to do that. So in the end, all we have to justify it are the best intentions behind the choices we make.” He paused. “And answer me this: can we say for certain that SHIELD, or anyone else, has those same intentions?”

Tony leaned back against the wall and scrubbed a hand over his face, suddenly looking exhausted as his narrow frame seemed to collapse in on itself. In fact, just about everyone seemed to take a step back with that. The emotions that had been running high seemed to drain away from everyone, at least marginally.

“And what if… what if your best intentions get people killed?” Rhodes asked, voicing Tony’s concerns for him.

Sam hopped up on the table across from them. “That might be a risk we have to take, at least right now, with this. Yeah, there’s always gonna be a risk, but if we don’t take this one now, if we don’t do something to stop AIM,” he explained, “there’s not a risk that people will die. It’s a certainty. The only factor up for debate is when.”

After all was said and done, it was… challenging, to say the least, to reach an agreement. Even then, it was barely that. It was more of an uneasy acknowledgement of the necessity of this particular course of action. And still yet, it was far from being a fully developed plan.

But it was something. For those few hours, with Jarvis putting the tower on lockdown and the lab isolated from any and all physical and digital prying eyes and ears, they addressed legal and ethical concerns in an overall even-keeled and reasonable manner, considering the context and events leading up to that conversation.

In the end, they weighed the risks in relation to the impending dangers, and found that waiting, or doing nothing, increased the odds of tragedy more than acting on the information they had would. Tony could accept the legitimacy of that equation, and those less mathematics oriented could still recognize the simple reality of the situation.

In the end, they acknowledged that it had to be done. So that left Steve, Tony, Sam, Bruce, and Thor sitting in the same place, in the corner of Tony’s lab, thinking about their next steps. Rhodes’ departure was explained by the realization that he should probably retain some degree of deniability, but Clint and Natasha were nowhere to found.

Despite leaving on the promise of “back in ten”, it had been a little over half an hour since they had watched their resident archer flee in the opposite direction Natasha had taken. Given the magnitude of the blowout confrontation and the probable need to recuperate, coupled with the likelihood that neither of the two participants were probably too comfortable with the fact that it occurred right there in front of everyone, no one expected to see them again in a timely manner.

After fifteen or so minutes had passed, Tony had inquired via Jarvis as to the current locations of the duo, only to receive a not very informative response. Clint, Jarvis explained, was not even in the tower; he had exited at the street level six minutes prior. And while Jarvis told them Natasha was in the tower at least, he could not provide them with her exact location as she had issued an explicit command to not do exactly that when someone undoubtedly asked. Even Tony’s override didn’t work, because Jarvis was abiding by his core code, which would not allow him to put anyone at serious risk of grave bodily injury or death.

The fact that Jarvis’s calculations of the possible results of sharing that information arrived at a ‘grave bodily injury or death’ scenario spoke volumes.

It also left the five of them alone to ponder just how they were going to infiltrate a corporate headquarters building in New York City whose resources included a small private army and the criminal underworld, without the benefit of having SHIELD at their backs or, given the way things were going, the help of either of their two best assets for a mission like this.

And that left them with quite a few things to discuss.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Clint, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets and collar turned up against the wind, stepped over a rather slick looking patch of ice and continued down the sidewalk, hugging close to the frosted-over glass exteriors of skyscrapers’ lobbies as he went in order to avoid the murky, icy slush thrown up on the sidewalk and onto incautious pedestrians by passing vehicles.

Clint wasn’t sure exactly the time, but the dark sky and the glare of streetlights told him it was late. It was mid December, and so despite the darkness it may not have been all that late, except it was past the evening traffic rush hour, and even by the standards of the city that never sleeps there were relatively few cars on the road, so yeah, it was late. Bracing against the merciless wind, Clint was cursing himself for up and leaving the tower without any concern for the season’s bitter proclivities, cursing the weather for having no redeeming qualities whatsoever, cursing AIM for being the root of all his current troubles, and cursing Natasha and himself once more for every fucking dumbass interpersonal failure that lead them to where she was- fuck if he knew- and to where he was- ill prepared for the weather in NYC in fucking December, hating himself- at that moment in time.

So yeah, everything sucked, and no, he still had no idea where he was going or what he was doing. Except, no. That was enough of that. He’d rather Natasha or the self-loathing or the embarrassment kill him indoors than let the bitchass weather kill him on the sidewalk.

He’d ‘gone for a walk’, which he was usually inclined to do after situations like that (though he had never been in a situation quite as truly awful as that), which also according to his therapist meant actually physically running away from his troubles. Well, what did she know. She thought his dream about finding a bunch of dog meant he was desperately searching for loyalty or some other piece of psychoanalytic mumbo-jumbo.

The good news and the bad news was that he never actually made it that far from the tower. So great, he didn’t have too long a walk back, but also not great was the fact that he was that much closer to facing up to what just happened.

To hell with it though. He wanted to fuck AIM and Blackbriar over nicely for all of the stress they’d put him through recently and not so recently. He _wanted_ to finish this goddamned mission, whether it meant he’d be watching his own back for a change or not.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Per Tony’s request, Jarvis alerted them when Clint returned to the tower. No further steps had to be taken however, seeing as the AI informed them that he was on his way back to the lab.

As Clint stepped off the elevator, still looking a little damp and cold and disheveled, it was like middle school all over again when the one kid standing watch sees the teacher returning and yells ‘Quick! Everyone act natural’. Needless to say, walking through those doors, absolutely everything, from the way everyone managed to avoid direct eye contact to the way some of them appeared to engage themselves in sudden conversations about nothing, made it clear to Clint just how uncomfortable being present for his and Natasha’s altercation had made them. And that in turn made him incredibly uncomfortable, but he was well past caring about that.

Everything was shit. He and Natasha were well and truly fucked. The team was scrambling because of it.

His only motivation to do anything right now was the overpowering desire to punch AIM (if it were possible for one person to embody the entire organization) right in the face. He wanted to rain on Blackbriar’s parade too, but that wasn’t really an option. Steal some information quickly and quietly? Sure. Burn the place down? Not so much.

AIM though... there he could do some damage.

Steve wasn’t sure what he was expecting from the man when Clint swept back into the room, but it wasn’t this. He could immediately tell from the careless sloppy grin, the quick and easy “Sorry I’m late”, and even the haphazard manner in which he walked and threw himself down onto a stool that the sense of gravity that had grounded him before had been abandoned. In its place was a recklessness that oozed confidence and security.

The problem was that none of it was real. Clint wore that faux persona for the same reason that Steve carried a shield into combat. Except whereas Steve used it to prevent injury, he knew that Clint was already so clearly hurting. It didn’t matter how well he masked it.

Clint straddled a stool, balancing on two legs of it while bracing his elbows against the edge of the metal tabletop, his hands clasped together. There seemed to have been some sort of unspoken agreement between them while he was gone to pretend like the reason for his brief adsense never happened. He could roll with that.

Not one to let an uncomfortable silence set it, Bruce spoke up, genuinely curious. “So, what exactly is in this file that Fury gave you?”

“Eh, just about everything you need for a little B and E, or some corporate espionage maybe,” Clint responded, staring at the offending papers before dropping his head to rest on his forearms. There was a pause. “Breaking and entering, that is,” he clarified. He sometimes forgot when he was speaking to normal people.

“Oh.”

“And what does that entail?” Sam asked this time. “Like, what is it exactly that you need to break into this place and get information about AIM?”

Clint shrugged as best he could without lifting himself from his current position slumped across the table. “Stuff to make it easier. Security codes, floor plans and blueprints and shit, computer stuff to make accessing the cameras easier, security staff protocols, and most importantly, location of an access point into the main server.”

Tony jumped onto that train of thought, adding, “The problem with this goddamn Blackbriar building, is that it’s one big completely closed loop. It’s off the grid- internal servers, internet, security system, cameras- all of it. So hacking in to extract anything, without tapping into the system from the inside, is just out of the question. Which means-”

“Good old fashioned smash and dash,” Clint grinned, a little flash of teeth and a manic light in his eyes. He was playing it quick and loose, he knew that, but he was only half serious and everything was shit anyway, and after all the bullshit- all the stalling and thinking and planning and questions and arguing and fighting without anything to show for it- this was something, finally, he could actually do to make some headway, and fuck it, he wanted to get it done.

The sooner he got this world saving stuff out of the way, the sooner he could figure out the other stuff that was gathering on top his shoulders. And the sooner he could go home.

“No, we need to be careful and subtle about this,” Steve said with a seriousness Clint just couldn’t muster right now. “Ideally, these Blackbriar people would never know we were there.”

“So…”

“No smashing, or dashing, it would seem,” Thor, who had worn a perpetually confused or maybe just deep-in-thought expression this entire time, clarified ever so helpfully.

“Well, I’m out then. Let me know if anything interesting happens,” Bruce said, hopping up with a little too much eagerness and making for the door.

“Just where do you think you’re going?” Tony asked, indignant. “If I have to be here, so do you, buddy.”

“No, unlike you, I’ve got nothing to offer here if subtlety is the goal.”

Clint laughed, “He’s got a point.”

“Besides, do you know how late it is? I’ve got a meeting with Jane and Selvig tomorrow morning to talk about… something or other. Goodnight,” Bruce called over his shoulder as doors shut behind him.

“Traitor,” Tony murmured, dropping his head onto his arms.

That word brought up a few unwelcome thoughts and left a bitter taste in Clint’s mouth. But he couldn’t afford to focus on that. Nor did he want to. So he shoved it down violently and put it away in some dusty attic in his mind.

Steve sighed, saying, “He’s right about one thing- it’s getting late. So let’s wrap this up. Clint, how do you want to do this?”

Clint swiveled sharply at the sound of his name. Wait, what? “Huh?”

“I think we’re going to defer to you on this one,” Steve explained. “Something tells me you’ve got more experience with these things.”

“Congrats Hawkeye, you have seniority on this one,” Tony added. “So, new fearless leader, what’s the plan here? Ya know, for the ‘B and E’ stuff.”

Clint blinked a few times, waiting for his brain to catch up. He ran through a few basic plans, but the nagging reminder that he was flying solo on this one, without the benefit of his long time partner on this sort of thing, limited his options. Hell, if it were just he and Natasha, this would be a walk in the park. But she had made it clear that wasn’t going to happen.

“Uh, right. So, subtlety is the goal. Then, a small crew job. Probably just us actually,” he said, motioning around the room. “We’ve got some options. We can probably either pull off a ‘Lucy Lou’ or- no damn, that requires a damsel in distress, and we are distinctly lacking in that department- so…” He paused to think, and realized that he was thinking out loud again. Damnit. Keep that to a minimum. “Either a ‘Special Delivery’ or a ‘Bait and Step’ or-” Clint looked up from where he was staring at the shiny table top to see blank stares. “And you have no idea what I’m talking about. Okay.”

“Nope, not everyone here understands petty criminal lingo,” Sam said, stretching his arms over his head and settling back into his chair.

“I object to that,” Clint said flatly.

“To the ‘petty’ part or the ‘criminal’ part?” Tony asked, smirking.

Clint would give them credit. They were starting to do a better job of acting normal and ignoring the elephant in the room.

“Both.” Clint frowned at them. A slightly annoyed look on Steve’s face got him back on track. “Given that you guys aren’t too- uh, familiar, or practiced, let’s say- at this, simplicity is key really. So ignore that other stuff. We’re playin’ a ‘Straight and Narrow’.”

Tony was able to procure a large blank sheet of paper- some sort of engineering or blueprint thing probably- and a sharpie (Clint refused to use any of Tony’s computer projected stuff- some things just needed to be done the old fashion way), and with the floor plans Fury had given him and a city map off google, Clint began to lay out the plan.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was nearly midnight when they left the lab. All things considered, it could have gone a lot worse. Tony seemed fine with his role, given it was all from a distance and behind a computer screen, Steve definitely had a rogue streak in him that Clint wasn’t expecting from America’s Golden Boy, and if Clint didn’t know better, he’d say Sam was downright excited to take a walk on the shady side.

Thor, however, was a little out of his depth and a little out of his comfort zone. (He said something about honor in the field of battle and something else about shadows, and Clint probably would have been offended if he’d been listening closer.) After being assured that Clint really meant ‘small’ when he said ‘small crew job’, and that they’d be just fine, he politely excused himself.

Clint, in search of caffeine, as he had a bit more contingency planning to do before bed, made it as far as the commons before his plans went astray. Rounding the corner, he made it a few steps before he felt something, someone, behind him. He didn’t have time, however, to act on it.

“I need to talk to you.”

Natasha’s voice broke the silence around him, and he had to force himself to remain still, to remain impassive, rather than jerk around to face the sudden ambush which he felt instinctively obliged to do. “You know, I really don’t want to do this right now,” Clint said to the empty room in front of him, matching her tone.

He had started to feel a little better about everything while he was in his element back there, even if he had just convinced himself that he was fine, but even so, it was slipping away, and that same bitter anger and frustration came right back to the surface.

“When then? In front of everyone again?”

“No, thanks very much for that by the way.” He turned on his heel to face her, finding her standing with her back to the wall in a convenient corner which allowed her do exactly what she did. He couldn’t get any sort of read on her. She looked him up and down briefly, not in a menacing or soul-piercing way, but with something else. Clint watched her intently, and then it clicked. She had the fucking audacity to _look concerned for him_.

Oh fuck off. She did not get to do that.

“What do you want from me Natasha?” he asked, laughing at the absurdity of it. “You promise to back me up on this whole Blackbriar thing, but then you back out because it’s like you remember that you’ve pissed with me, and then you’ve angry at me again because I’m going in without you?” His volume was rising, temper flaring with it. “And then you make it very, _very_ clear that you’re done _._ _Done_. That you want nothing to do with it. But here you are, ambushing me in the dark to talk about it.”

She took a step forward, closing the distance between them. But it wasn’t aggressive in the slightest; her hands were out in a manner reminiscent of calming a spooked animal, and when she spoke again her tone was gentle. “It isn’t that simple, Clint.”

“It used to be,” Clint said, still angry, but also upset. And confused. She could see that. She could hear it. “I don’t know why it’s not anymore. Ya know, how did ‘us against the world’ turn into ‘you against me’? I really don’t get that, and I’m not sure I ever will.” She didn’t respond to that. In fact she seemed caught off guard. “What did I do, Tash?” The anger, the frustration, the disregard, all of was gone, his guarded posture abandoned. “Please tell me how in the span of a few days,” he pleaded, stepping toward her, “I managed to fuck up so badly, that I made my best friend _hate_ me.” He stopped a few steps shy of her, just quiet, waiting.

Whereas Clint wasn’t even trying to mask the distress that radiated out from him, Natasha was trying without a great deal of success to hold back the waves of emotion that slammed into her from the inside, begging to break free. Mostly is was sadness and regret and self-loathing, which was new. She hated that she was responsible for this.

And for what? She couldn’t answer that question. She couldn’t answer it for herself, and certainly not for him.

“You didn’t.” She was so quiet, so not what he expected her to be, that he almost missed it. When she began speaking again, she moved her hands, signing carefully, ever so intentionally, along with the words. “I meant what I said, that you couldn’t be more wrong. It’s my fault, Clint. I messed up.”

Clint inhaled sharply, words he didn’t even have caught in his throat. He started, just barely, to let his guarded posture down, watching her suspiciously.

“In truth, the problem isn’t that I think too little of you. It’s- it’s quite the opposite actually,” she laughed, not in humor but in discomfort.

He could hear something unfamiliar in her voice. But then, he began to understand it. Fear. She was terrified. He didn’t know why. He didn’t know for how long. But something told him it had a lot to do with causing their conflict earlier.

“The problem is that I think too highly of you. And I care too much.” She looked away, blinking hard and taking a quick, shaky breath.

“Tash,” he said softly, taking a half step toward her. He felt like an ass. God he was a moron. It was like he had to be hit over the head with a two-by-four before he would pick up on this type of thing. And here she was, hurting and afraid, with said metaphorical two-by-four.

“No,” she said firmly, stopping him. “Let me finish, please.” She recomposed herself, eyes flicking up to meet his for a brief moment before shifting her gaze to stare off over his shoulder. “So it’s my fault. When this, this problem, between us stated, you asked me what we were. I didn’t know, but I thought about it, and I let it- I let us- get in the way of our ability to work together, on this team, and to do our jobs. You’re right about Blackbriar, too. We need access to their records in order to locate AIM’s base of operations and to figure out our next steps. I just didn’t want you- still don’t want you- to take that risk. But if it were anyone else to propose it, I wouldn’t have objected.” She swiped her heel of her palm beneath her eyes, swearing a few choice words in Russian to herself beneath her breath.

The guilt was overpowering. Clint wanted nothing more than close the distance between them, but he was cautious, as was she. “Natasha,” he tried again, “it isn’t all your fault.” He stepped toward her, but she jerked back to keep her distance, a hand up in a clear stop gesture, freezing him in his place.

“No, don’t you get it?” There was the anger again. “Stop. Just stop, Clint. We can’t do this. We just need to make things go back to the way they were. This just isn’t working.”

He heard her words before he understood them. He felt numbness settle over him, and as much as he tried, he couldn’t force himself to feel anything. He was exhausted emotionally, physically, in every way possible. And now this… he didn’t know what to do with it. He swallowed, blinking, and stepped backward, eyes on the floor.

“Yeah, okay,” was all he said, nodding. “If- ah. If that’s what you want. Sure.” He hadn’t stopped his retreat, and finding himself a suitable distance away, turned to leave. He drifted slowly on autopilot for the elevator.

She had plenty of opportunities to stop him. Hell, she’d had plenty of opportunities to make their conversation go any way she’d wanted. She rehearsed it for hours. But this was necessary, she told herself. Everything would go back to normal. Everything would be okay again.

She’d said what she needed to say. But if she had just managed to say that it wasn’t what she wanted, that none of this was what she wanted… that she didn’t know what she wanted, but it wasn’t this... maybe she wouldn’t be forced to say it all to his back, too quietly, too late, and in a language he couldn’t understand, as he was walking away.

“Сожалею… Я думаю, что люблю вас… Прости меня.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Natasha's last lines translation:  
> "I'm sorry... I think I love you... forgive me."
> 
> Yeah, it's hit rock bottom, sorry pals. It'll get better, I promise!


	11. good faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epiphany! Everybody gets one! Some maybe a little less obviously!  
> And oddly enough, a lot more of Steve's POV that usual. 
> 
> (Also, been listening to Birdy's cover of Skinny Love by Bon Iver while writing this shit and I'm just... fjuckkin cryyin okaay? It's perfect okay? Give it a go when Clintasha is breakin apart, in whatever fic you read.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need a fuckin beta.  
> (to seek out the obvi typos, and glaring awkwardness, and to force me to keep updating)  
> fuckin help me somebody these two just damn it they kill me an i try i do also it is in the very early AM okay so I am having a crisis of faith in my ability to put words into sentences and generalized anxiety is kickin my ass rn  
> Comment if you're interested :)))))))))))) K, thanks babes  
> THIS CHAPTER IS SO FUCKING LONG OR AT LEAST I FEEL LIKE IT IS BUT IT IS THIRTY-ONE (31) PAGES IN THE GOOGLE DOC SO FUCK ME I GUESS IDK  
> It just wouldn't stop. I couldn't stop it. Maybe that's a problem- I hope it isn't needlessly boring/slow/tedious/just unnecessary. Trust me though, I haven't lost the plot. It's in there... somewhere. It also just maybe got shoved back a chapter.

Some things just fell into a routine. It wasn’t intentional, nor was it an accident; it just happened, and then it happened again, and so some unspoken rule of the universe was created, dictating that it shall forever be so. 

So Steve half suspected some cataclysmic, seismic, the very fabric of time and space altering event must have occurred when he stepped off the elevator into the commons at 6 AM on the dot on his way to the kitchen for a coffee and bagel before his scheduled morning run, only to encounter one awake though not necessarily alert Clint Barton sitting at the kitchen island. 

And the Clint Barton that Steve Rogers knew never got out of bed before 8 AM at the very earliest unless the world was burning.

Steve stopped in his tracks, pondering the impossible. After a moment of observation however, a few obvious details quickly righted the way of the world. The distant expression Clint was accessorizing his rumpled t-shirt and purple sweatpants with, the fresh pot of coffee brewing, and the steaming mug already before him, suggesting the brewing pot was not his first, all led Steve to the obvious conclusion. Admittedly though, it was not the most optimal conclusion.

Nothing was wrong with the laws of the universe. But that didn’t mean nothing was wrong with Hawkeye. In fact, it was quite the opposite.

In the short amount of time which passed between assessing the situation and making his legs move again, Steve had elected to forego his routine morning run, help himself to a cup of coffee, and start making pancakes.

He would say he wasn’t exactly sure why he did it, except he’d be lying to himself. He set about fixing the tumultuous and unclear emotional problem in the best way he knew how. The circumstances brought him back in time a century to a hazy memory of one Bucky Barnes- just a kid like Steve at the time, but bigger and taller still and very much alive- leaning on his elbows over the rickety kitchen table, two forks and a large plate stacked high with homemade pancakes, smothered in sticky syrup between them. What the memory lacked in context, it made up for in oddly specific details and a complex emotional burden that came with it.

It was his kitchen table, back in his mom’s place, so she must’ve still been alive at the time. In this picture Steve had captured in his head, Bucky wore that sloping, gentle smile that often felt like was reserved just for Steve, his eyes soft and apologetic in that moment. That was protective big brother Bucky he saw, not the smooth gentleman heavily doling out the charm, even at that young age, with the confident soon to be ‘lady killer’ smile.

From the look he recalled in Bucky’s eyes, and the fact that the guy must have gone to incredibly extravagant measures to get his hands on any syrup at all- the sticky sweet goodness being an absolute luxury back then to penny pinchers like themselves- as well as the heavy, melancholy feeling that accompanied the memory, Steve knew that Bucky was doing what he always did: look out for his best friend, pick him up when he fell apart, and carefully put him back together and make sure everything was right in Steve’s world again. 

Looking back now, Steve figured his childhood self must have been down on his luck over yet another fight gone poorly, or perhaps a rather rough bout of harassment by the schoolyard bullies, or perhaps it was his mother’s deteriorating health. Maybe it had been some combination of them all.

It didn’t really matter which; it must have been real bad either way. So Bucky made pancakes. With syrup. And Steve Rogers in the 21st century set about emulating his example, and did the same. 

All the while focusing intently on his task, Steve kept an eye on the other man, always inconspicuous and nearly always just from the corner of his eye. Though given the lack of attention Clint was showing the world outside his own head, Steve doubted he would have noticed if he stared. Regardless of  his methods, Steve didn’t gain any more insight than he already had. He saw Clint stir exactly twice to lift the mug and sip, he may have blinked a few times, and he maintained a steady and relaxed breathing rhythm, but beside that, Steve had nothing to report beyond the exhausted and empty look in his eyes.

Steve’s self-delegated task was a simple one, and he took to it with efficiency and a tidiness his mother had instilled in him since he could crawl. Gather ingredients, make the batter, clean up as you go, make the pancakes- regular, chocolate chip, and blueberry, plus syrup (Bucky never woulda imagined those possibilities)- present the pancakes on a platter, gather the necessary cutlery and plates, clean up again in the end. Done. Steve surveyed his work. 

Not bad.

Clint was aware that Steve was busying himself about the kitchen. He was aware of every time he walked from the oven to the sink area and back again. Aware of when he opened and closed cabinets, removing and replacing items from their shelves. He smelled what was happening over by the oven even when he couldn’t hear it, his aids sitting on his bedside table where he left them. But still, while aware, he never really considered it, never stopped to place it, or to connect the observations with any sort of conclusion or a care about what was going on. 

That was, until Steve planted himself like a tree across the island counter from where Clint sat hunched over, blocking his view of a not entirely intriguing white tile he had been staring at while his head simultaneously wandered to another place and wondered about nothing at all.

He blinked, his focus on focusing about nothing broken, and his empty and frozen train of consciousness jolting to an unwelcome, purely caffeine driven start.  He blinked again frowning. He considered telling Steve to move, but that would require speaking, and moving, and Steve would ask why or would refuse sternly and patriotically or something. 

Clint didn’t want to deal with that, but even though he could win a staring contest with a fish, he didn’t have much of a choice in how or when or if he would deal with it at all when Steve pulled up a seat to get eye level with Clint, who was then forced by the laws of propriety to shift his gaze. Blinking,  he opted to look down to a nice and bland looking dark streak in the marble countertop half way between himself and Mr. Intrudes Into Other People’s Nonexistent Internal Monologues Addressing Kitchen Tiles.

That of course ended when Mr. Can’t Mind His Own Business slid one previously forgotten, steaming and full, very inviting coffee pot across the counter to come to a halt in front of Clint, who of course couldn’t help but follow its path. The moment of truth then. Inhaling heavily and leaning back in his seat- his first movement in a few hours at least- Clint stifled a yawn and reached for the pot, topping off his own cooling mug of the rich, life giving substance. By that point, Clint figured it was the only liquid his heart was pumping.

Steve, ever the gentleman, allowed Clint a good few minutes of readjusting to a less comatose and more alert state before posing his next challenge, which would require some executive decision making functions. Noticing the absence of his usual bright purple aids, Steve waved to get Clint’s attention, and after catching his eyes over the oversized mug he was drinking from, Steve, using his new ASL knowledge, signed ‘Regular, blueberry, or chocolate?’

Clint stopped, setting the mug down, a frown accompanied by a narrowing brow slowly developing across his face. “What?” he asked, a little quietly, which Steve attributed to the not being able to judge his own volume very accurately.

‘Did I get it wrong?’ he continued signing, slowly and each movement intentional. But that was more for the benefit of the sleep deprived, slow to consciousness Hawkeye he had on his hands than it was due to his inexperience with ASL. He had gotten pretty good over the past few months, but that wasn’t to say he was perfect. So Steve attributed the look of confusion to either Clint struggling to catch up to reality, or a mistake in his sign language. ‘Regular, blueberry, or chocolate pancakes? Which do you want?’

Clint’s eyes flicked over the skillets atop the oven and the platter of enough pancakes for most of the team piled next to it, his gaze shifting back and forth between Steve and the scene he just now seemed to take in as he lifted his mug again. Exhaling, he set the mug down. Both hands free, he signed back. ‘Blueberry.’ A pause, and a forced flash of a half smile. ‘Yes, you got it right.’

Steve loaded up a plate until Clint waved at him to stop, then passed it along with the bottle of syrup and a fork and knife to him. Steve then made his own plate, grabbed yesterday’s paper which he still hadn’t gotten around to reading, and settled in for a solid half an hour of leisurely breakfast.

Every five minutes or so he’d glance up at the only other guy in the room to monitor his progress. Clint ate what he’d put in front of him, almost mechanically at first and like he was driven purely by conditioning- Steve had seen more than a few guys in the army like that, eating hardtack rations like it coulda been dust (it wasn’t actually that far off) with that same empty look on their faces, simply because they had to eat and they were ordered to- but halfway through he seemed to actually start considering what he was putting in his mouth, and dumped syrup on the previously dry stack. 

Another few minutes in and he noticed Clint was reaching for the pot to refill his mug. A few after that and he was standing, meandering around the kitchen island toward the refrigerator, rolling his shoulders and stretching lightly. He opened and proceed to close the refrigerator without a great deal of apparent motive or success, and then drifted over to the sink where he filled a glass with water, and sipping from that, hopped up to sit in the counter there.

Three quarters of the way through an article about a local green energy initiative, Steve realized he hadn’t actually absorbed a single word. Well, it was almost time for phase 3 of his mission anyway.

Phase 1 was the setup: make the pancakes, prep the operation. Phase 2 was well under way: pull Clint back to reality, get him primed to make the first move. And make the first move he would.

A sly, almost unnoticeable smile tugged at the corner of Steve’s mouth as he again remembered Bucky’s fail proof tactics. Bucky would identify the problem, and set up the scene to talk about the problem- hence, the comfort food, the splurging on syrup, the quiet and familiar room free of interruption, his ever supportive presence- but he’d never, never, not once breach the conversation regarding the problem first. No, if he had, Steve was self-aware enough to concede that his stubborn ass woulda shut him down every time. No, instead, he let it simmer, and wait, and grow heavier in the air, and not even say a single god damn word, until the elephant in the room became so tangible, Steve couldn’t help but open his mouth and start the conversation-  _ any _ conversation. Steve would crack, and spill his guts, and then Bucky would get to work smoothing it all over. The pancakes helped with that, too.

And from everything he knew about Clint Barton, if the man didn’t have a stubborn streak a mile long, Steve would eat his own shoes. So, he reasoned, it’d work much that same.

And right he was.

“Do ’ya always get up so early?” Clint asked, breaking the long silence as he blinked down at the glass in his hands for a long moment before looking up for a response. 

Steve sighed on an exhale, closing the paper he hadn’t been that interested in anyway and leaning back comfortably in his seat. “Yes, usually,” Steve explained, knowing Clint could read lips from this distance and angle just about as well as he could sign. “I’ll typically go for a morning run, but I wasn’t feeling it today.”

“Hmm.” Clint’s eyes flicker over to the glowing blue clock on the microwave indicating it was 7:04 in the morning. “Good idea. Weather’s shit.”

Steve raised an eyebrow, dubious. “The forecast says otherwise.”

Clint, ever one to detect a challenge, frowned right back, mouth a hard line. “Gonna be shit,” he corrected.

“And you know that because…” Steve trailed off, an obvious question- but one he expects to go unanswered- in his tone. Not that Clint could really detect tone right now. But he could read facial expressions like nobody's business. At least, he was pretty good at telling when someone was either lying, in pain, or about to try and kill someone, from what Steve had seen, but he figured anyone with that skillset, particularly a long time mostly deaf guy, would be fairly well versed in the area. “Sorry if I have doubts in your weather forecast fortune telling abilities.”

Clint snorted, rolling his eyes. “Isn’t nothin’ to do with fortune tellin’, not that I haven’t seen that old schtick enough times to give my hand a go at it,” he said, no doubt alluding to his much younger carnie days, which, despite the budding criminal element, he had always seemed to hold with some sort of pride and fondness. “Nah. Hurts,” he said simply, tapping one hand to his ear. “Weather’s gonna be shit.”

“Hmm,” Steve hummed, mouth pursed. He supposed that was reasonable. He recalled a woman who lived on his street growing up. She was elderly and grey and walked with a cane and a slight hobble, and she unfailingly griped when her knee was hurting her that it was gonna rain later. And it almost always did. So maybe there was something to that. “Hurt bad?”

“Nah,” Clint waved it away. “More like pressure.” He took a sip of water.

Steve decided to begin directing the trajectory of the conversation. “You, however, are not always up this early.”

Clint shrugged. “Not my first choice either.” He scooted down the cabinet to within range of the platter of still warm pancakes, selected a chocolate chip one from the top, and began tearing off little pieces to pop into his mouth. 

He looked bored, and tired, but not on the fringes, so Steve kept pushing for a little more. “You sleep at all?” Clint wasn’t looking, so he signed it again, the movement catching his eye.

“You my mother now, too?” Clint asked. Steve’s only response to that was a hard stare. Clint rolled his eyes, exhaling through his nose heavily. “Fine. Yeah, I did, thanks for askin’. And while you’re on the mother hen track, no, it wasn’t all that long. A coupla hours. And no, I didn’t care for it all that much.” Clint moodily refused to look Steve’s way for a couple minutes, consequently- and quite intentionally- forcibly halting their conversation in the meantime. “So here I fuckin’ am,” he said under his breath, staring at the floor.

When he did come around, tired and bored demeanor not having changed much, Steve signed again, figuring he might as well practice, ‘Why not?’

Clint fixed him with  _ that _ look, the kind that read ‘are you stupid or something?’. Steve returned the look, unwavering. Clint quit picking at his food, throwing it down on the countertop beside him as he relented. “Kept seein’ things I didn’t wanna see,” he admitted, refusing to make eye contact, but his eyes at least down at Steve’s hands.

‘I get that,’ was his response, nodding thoughtfully. The nightmares he understood. They could be bad. Real bad. The type of thing that sinks its claws into you and drags you from sleep kicking and screaming and watching every traumatizing or terrifying or awful thing you’ve ever seen flash before you kind of bad. He figured correctly that Clint had witnessed just about as many of those types of things to make him dread sleep on some nights as Steve himself had.

Clint nodded, and the two shared a silent understanding. “Mostly dead people,” he continued, shrugging like he was discussing baseball stats. “People that are, but shouldn’t be. But that’s nothin’ new,” he was quick to add.

‘I understand that too,’ Steve signed, formulating his next words carefully. ‘I talked with Sam once about something similar-’

“I swear _ to god _ , Rogers,” Clint interrupted in dramatic fashion, volume rising, “if you’re about to suggest I get therapy and talk about  _ my feelings _ , I will shove your shield so far up your ass you won’t-”

“Alright, alright, calm down,” Steve said, a laugh creeping into his voice and a smile pulling at his mouth. ‘I wasn’t going to,’ he continued signing.

“Good,” Clint said in return, crossing his arms across his chest. “Cause I can’t even talk about half that shit anyway, classified and all, and I already got a SHIELD mandated shrink I gotta let poke around inside my head to her heart’s content at least once a month. And-” Steve watched with curiosity as Clint froze, something akin to abrupt realization flashing across his face. “Motherfucker.”

‘What’s wrong?’

And then Clint started to laugh, which surprised them both. A grin broke out across his face, his shoulders shaking as he tried to get himself under control again. “Well shit,” he said, shaking his head. “I never did get my physical eval signed off on, did I. Damn.” 

Something about it, something about the insignificance of the thing, of it being a random technicality in his world which had turned upside down- something about so much weight hinging on getting a doctor to glance at him once over and to sign a freaking piece of paper- was absurdly, nihilistically funny. He couldn’t help it. So technically, he never should have been in the field in the first place. He still shouldn’t be. 

And Clint explained as much to Steve, whose only change was too look even less surprised. Which was also funny.

Well, fuck it. Fury- or whoever was in charge by the end of this- could chew him out afterwards. Better ask for forgiveness than permission, and all that. “Say, do you think Banner could sign that, and date it to like a few weeks ago? Eh, probably not.”

‘Anyway,’ Steve continued signing, not one to let a meaningful conversation get off track. ‘I was only going to say that Sam had said something that really stuck with me. Think about all those same people, and think about who would forgive you.’ Clint looked hesitant, but continued watching his hands, so Steve carried on. ‘If it was someone you tried to help, but couldn’t, what could they blame you for? You think someone who shouldn’t be dead is gone because of you, or wouldn’t be otherwise? Were you trying to hurt them? Of course not. You must have had good reason for whatever you did in the moment. And hindsight is 20/20. Would you hold a grudge if your places were reversed? I’d bet not.’

Clint’s demeanor shifted, but not in the way Steve hoped. He looked incredibly distant, his jaw locking and eyes falling down to the ground. He swallowed, then looking up to meet him in the eyes, simply said, “Dead people can’t forgive anything, Steve. They don’t know how.” He glanced away briefly. ‘And even if they could,’ he picked up his train of thought in sign, ‘It isn’t like they have the words to say it.’

Steve’s mind flashed back to Bucky Barnes for the third time that morning, this time unwelcome, and his stomach dropped a little at the thought of what Clint had just said, and the way he’d said it, completely earnest and hopeless and out of nowhere. 

Steve swallowed, frowning. “I think you should reconsider that, Clint. Forgiveness isn’t just something you feel or that you say. You have to decide to forgive. And if these people were alive-”

“Well they’re not alive, now are they,” Clint snapped, looking irritated. “And that’s the point.” Steve frowned, about to respond when Clint dropped his gaze again, a seemingly permanent frown returning to his face. “Ya know what? Forget it,” he said, hopping off the counter to his feet. Collecting his dishes, he moved quickly to place them in the sink, saying, “I get you’re trying to help Cap, and I appreciate it, but trust me when I say I’ve dealt with this a million times already and I’ll deal with it a million times again. And I won’t ever reach some ‘enlightened’ acceptance, 12 steps to nirvana bullshit revelation or anything, but I’ll get along just fine, just like I always have.” 

Clint huffed out a breath, looking pissed all over again as he dumped whatever coffee was left in his mug down the drain. “And you know what else? I know what you’re sayin’, okay? Fine. I already had somebody beat that into me.” He was accentuating his speech with an increasing volume and with increasingly uncontrolled hand gestures, sometimes like a half attempt at signing. “I know not everythin’s my fault, and I know some things I can’t fix, and some people I can’t help, but it  _ still _ ,” he set the mug in the sink a little too hard, “ _ feels _ ,” he slammed his hands down on the countertop, “ _ shitty _ .” He inhaled sharply, letting it out as he tried to gather himself again. “And that,” he said, regaining a semblance of order, “is what I’m left with. I can deal with that.”

Steve nodded. Apparent outburst aside, he did genuinely think that Clint  _ was  _ handling things- the nightmares and the like- in an okay way, but just his own way. And, Steve believed, he was probably just having a particularly rough time of things lately. Which was… understandable, to say the least. Given… everything.

“Okay.”

Clint stopped, looking incredulous. “What?”

“I said okay,” Steve repeated, signing simultaneously. “I trust your judgement on matters concerning your own head.”

Clint blinked a few times, finally nodding. “Oh, okay.”

‘It wasn’t even what I wanted to ask you about anyway.’Clint immediately went on the defensive, putting distance between himself and Steve, arms crossed in front of him, his eyes narrowing and mouth a hard line. And that, Steve recalled, is why Bucky never breached the problem topic first. He didn’t really have a choice now, though. ‘You and Natasha. And before you up and leave-’ Steve signed, giving him a look to preempt a complaint or an excuse- ‘I don’t need to know the details or context of what’s going on, only that it’ll get worked out.’

Clint was silent for a long moment. ‘It should be fine,’ he signed, eyes still downcast, but in place of frustration or anything else Steve expected him to react to the intrusion with, Steve could only identify a small trace of sadness. ‘We… talked it out.’

‘Before or after what happened last night?’ Steve asked, referencing their rather heated public argument.

‘After.’

‘How did that go?’

He tilted his head as if conceding something as he thought about it. “Well”, he said, “nobody got killed. And everything should be… back to normal,” he finished after thinking about it. But for whatever reason, Steve didn’t think that he seemed too happy about things getting “back to normal”.

“Alright,” Steve said, reaching for his abandoned newspaper.

“That’s it?” Clint asked, half confused and the other half suspicious.

“Yep. Sounds good.”

“Um, cool, thanks.” He hesitated. “For this,” he added, and waved toward the leftovers, “and, ya know.” He lifted a hand to scratch at the nape of his neck, feeling awkward as Steve simply flipped a page and resumed where he left off. He began making his way over to the other side of the floor, where various overstuffed seating arrangements and a large flat screen TV dominated the space. “And, just so you know, you’re getting pretty good at signing too... appreciate it,” Clint said quietly, leaving the kitchen behind.

Steve glanced up from where he was about to start reading something about vaccines and a ridiculous movement against them, going by the headline. He flashed Clint a smile and a thumbs up, not that he saw it. He turned back to the article, pouring himself another cup of coffee.

Clint wandered across the hardwood floor onto the very soft and fluffy carpeting and collapsed onto his favorite couch in the corner. It had the best vantage point in the room, so he frequented it often enough to claim it, which he did. There wasn’t much else to do at this godforsaken time of morning anyway. So he grabbed for the remote and flipped on the TV, on mute and with subtitles. It was something shitty (Was he overusing that word to describe things this morning? Or was it because it was the morning that he was using the word?) and despite himself and the restless night he had just had- or again, perhaps because of it- he quickly found it too difficult to keep his eyes open long enough to pay the subtitles any attention anyway.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

By 8:45 AM, Steve had been joined by nearly every one of the tower’s other occupants in the kitchen. Tony sat elbow to elbow with Bruce and tried to read the newspaper over Steve’s shoulder. Thor, Jane, Sam, and an exhausted looking Darcy were discussing cult classic films (the 1999 release The Mummy seemed to be winning, though 1987’s The Princess Bride was a close second), and Rhodes was leaning heavily on the counter watching the machine fill a new pot of coffee. Pancakes were reheated, more coffee was brewed, mugs, plates, and utensils began to fill the sink, but even when no one seemed to have a good reason to stick around, no one seemed eager to leave. 

Steve supposed he wasn’t the only one to appreciate the element of simple comradery everyone’s presence held during this rather terse time. 

He wasn’t quite sure when Natasha slipped in. Steve only became aware of her presence after he looked up to scowl at Tony encroaching into his personal space and saw her perched on the counter beside the much depleted platter of pancakes sipping from a ‘Jarvis is my co-pilot’ mug. The similarity between her chosen manner of seating and Clint’s earlier perch struck him, but then, so much that those two did mirrored the other. Including their equitable stupidity over this whole squabble that had grown way out of proportion, he mused. He brushed that thought aside. They would figure it out, sooner or later. Steve just hoped it would be the former option.

He next noticed her when she slid into the seat beside him. “Where’s Clint?”

He turned away from the sports section to look at her, quickly attempting to assess her cause for posing the question, but she was as unreadable as ever. All seemed well though, and Steve didn’t have reason to fear for Clint’s safety, so he nodded his head in the direction of the passed out Hawkeye on the other side of the room. “His couch.”

“Remember, it’s rude to kill people in their sleep,” Tony chidded, eyes on the tablet that he had stolen from Bruce. He was scrolling through it, also scanning the headlines. “Unless, of course, they really,  _ really _ deserve it.”

“Not helping, Tony,” Bruce said on a yawn, elbowing his friend and sliding the tablet over to look at something himself. The two broke out in a miniature shoving match over the device. Natasha proceeded to ignore them, slipping off her chair and padding silently in the direction Steve had indicated. 

Watching her go, Steve noticed there was a shift around him. Subdued conversations and bickering went silent. Craning his head back around to scan the kitchen, Steve saw everyone watching the path Natasha trailed across the floor, not even attempting to hide all of their interests in what happened next. Tony shamelessly went so far as to get up and move toward the coffeemaker to get a better view. Rolling his eyes, Steve went back to reading up on the Mets. 

Natasha was well aware she was being watched. 

Winding around assorted chairs and couches and arriving to stand on the other side of the coffee table in front of the couch Clint had claimed in the farthest recess of the room, she paused to examine the man splayed out on his stomach across the cushions, his arms folded underneath the pillow he had buried most of his face into. 

She chose that moment to snap her head around to shoot her best icy glare at the others, who were looking on unabashedly, on the very far side of the room. That resulted in a very satisfying flurry of movement as they rushed to drop their stares, turn about, or even up and walk a short way away. Smirking, Natasha plopped down on the armchair adjacent to the occupied couch, propping her feet up on the coffee table.

She wanted a moment without an audience.

Clint was very much dead to the world. That much was obvious, she noted, head tilting thoughtfully to one side. He was breathing deep and evenly, his t-shirt stretched tautly over his shoulder blades as they rose and fell, rose and fell. He looked… remarkably peaceful. For the first time in what felt like a very long time, the incessant worry was gone from her partner’s forehead, and the tension was gone from his shoulders. 

Her eyes traced the planes of his back, down the curve of his spine, over the ridges of muscle overlaying his ribcage.

She stopped abruptly, kicking herself mentally as she reminded herself that he was  _ just  _ her partner and nothing more or less and fine she could check on his stress-related wellbeing but she should probably stop staring at his shoulders.

Damn archery to hell.

Her previously benign mood disturbed due to her frustration, she threw herself back heavily against the overstuffed chair, crossing her arms over her chest as a frown occupied her expression. She waited for a minute, and then another. But nothing changed. 

She noticed the lack of hearing aids, and glancing around, didn’t seem them discarded anywhere nearby. Sighing, she pushed herself out of the chair and left for the elevator with a new mission in mind.

She was only gone for a moment. Heads in the kitchen turned once again- only very briefly and cautiously this time- as the elevator doors clicked open and she glided back out silently, padding barefoot across plush carpet and coming to a stop before sinking back into her chair, this time, Clint’s hearing aids snuggly in her pocket. She had located them quickly in the usual place he tossed them, if he remembered, before bed.

Her gaze fell back to Clint, as gone to the world then as he was before. He should really probably not sleep like that with someone right there, staring, in such a close vicinity: close enough and long enough to have killed him easily in his sleep and have been well on her way. It was a personal safety hazard she reasoned, justifying her next course of action. 

Extending a foot, she prodded him, hard, in the ribs, and quickly withdrew as he jolted awake. He jerked his head up, eyes scanning for the threat when they immediately landed upon Natasha, arms crossed still and looking bitter. He froze, like a deer in the headlights.

She cocked her head to the side, raising an eyebrow. ‘Seriously?’ she signed. 

Flopping over onto his side and propping himself up onto an elbow, he eyed her warily. ‘What?’

‘I would never kill anyone in their sleep. Why do people keep assuming I would?’

Clint blinked at her. ‘No idea.’ She frowned a little deeper at him. Clint shrugged, sitting up and swinging his legs off the couch, bare feet digging into the soft shaggy carpet. They sat there in silence, his eyes averted and her arms still crossed so that they both distanced themselves inadvertently in a way, making the silence uncomfortable. 

And that was foreign to them.

Natasha shifted, digging a hand into the pocket of her jeans and extending her hand out to Clint, who took his aids from her open palm with a quick smile. ‘Thanks.’

‘No problem.’More silence ensued as Clint leaned back into the couch, settling his aids into place. Natasha carefully pulled her legs up on the cushion, sitting cross legged. ‘Are they still staring?’ she asked, her back to the others.

Clint flicked his eyes up in the direction of the kitchen, catching a few looks, but nothing too intrusive. ‘Some of them. A little.’

“Hmm,” she nodded, eyes fixed on a point behind him on the wall. ‘Did you sleep at all?’

‘Yes, until you kicked me.’

‘No, you were passed out on the couch. I mean sleep. Upstairs. There is a difference.’

‘Yes. Just fine.’

That was a lie. She wouldn’t have found him down here if it were the truth. But she chose not to pursue it. She felt like she didn’t have the right now to do that, like it wasn’t, or shouldn’t be, her business.

How or when or where or if he slept or-  _ who _ \- he slept with shouldn’t and doesn’t and didn’t matter to her unless it negatively impacted his ability to operate in the field, and thus far she hadn’t seen that it did. They were partners. Colleagues. They work together. And that was- that had to be- the extent of their relationship.

Despite how she was coming to realize it killed her.

‘Did you eat yet,’ she asked, changing subjects. 

‘Yes.’

‘Coffee then?’

He paused, considering the implications. ‘Okay.’ Since when did coffee between them have implications...

Feeling like something was settled, Natasha rose from her seat, Clint following as she walked back to the kitchen. She wordlessly retrieved two mugs, choosing to ignore that fact that everyone else’s eyes miraculously never managed to fall on her or Clint once. Filling them, she slid one over to Clint where he selected a seat at the island counter. 

“Thanks,” dropped from his mouth, and she nodded in return, but that was the end of their conversation. She hopped up onto the counter a ways away, sipping from her own mug.

Well, at least they were being civil, Steve thought to himself. He personally wasn’t too concerned, but glancing around, he could sense a little uneasiness in those around him, like they were witnessing the calm before the storm. 

However, the problem, when it did come, didn’t come from either of those two. Everything was just fine until their morning took a downward spiral for the worse. It began, harmless though it seemed at the time, with a blinking blue light in the corner of Tony’s tablet. 

That in itself would have gone completely unnoticed and would have lacked any and all cause for concern, if not for the manner in which Tony reacted to it. At Jarvis’s silent flashing notification, he swiped the news article he was reading aside and, through the portal Jarvis helpfully provided, opened a new screen- row upon row of tiny print, excerpts of code, and a million other technical elements none of the others had any hope of interpreting. His eyes narrowing and brow creasing, frowning more deeply by the minute. 

“Umm… problem,” Tony said, eyes flicking across the glowing screen, dragging his finger across it to scroll down slowly. “Uh, yeah, that’s a problem.”

Apparently, the concern was contagious. Steve inquired as to what was wrong, not that Tony seemed to pay any heed to anything in that moment if it wasn’t his own stream of consciousness or on the screen in front of him. Slowly however in response to his friends’ prodding, in starts and stops, attention rarely ever turned away from the glowing surface in his hands, he began to explain.

Something- more like someone nosing around where they shouldn’t, he’d said- had tripped one of the cyber security nets which were one of the far more understated elements of the tower’s defenses against the threat of technological infiltration, malware, unauthorized satellite uplinks, and basically hacking of any kind. And, it didn’t take a genius of his caliber, Tony reminded them, to recognize the behavior. It was made distinctive both by the fact that they were so damn close to succeeding at remaining hidden and by the type of activity engaged: it was just surveillance, and even then, not entirely intrusive surveillance. No attempting to hack into audio or video feeds, they didn’t go anywhere near the automated weapons defense system or any of Tony’s projects and assorted armaments, and there were no trojan plants which would be necessary to maintain the intrusion or potentially launch a more malignant cyber attack later on.

No, none of that. In layman’s terms, Tony explained, it was basically the type of data mining Amazon or Google conducts, monitoring online traffic and judging user’s interests and activities. Except, a super advanced, pretty hardcore, very illegal hack-y kind. And so, given all of the factors, Tony assured them that “these two-timing pistanthrophobic assholes might as well have signed the damn thing.”

“For the love of god, Tony,” Sam exclaimed, digging deep for patience. “Nevermind the fact we don’t know half of  _ what _ the hell you’re talking about, would you care to tell us  _ who _ you’re talking about?”

“SHIELD. I’m talking about SHIELD, my fair feathered friend. Obviously, at least one of your bosses doesn’t trust us to keep our distance on this one,” he said, addressing Clint and Natasha. “Arguably rightfully so, of course. Still a dick move though.”

Natasha leaned forward into the conversation from her seat on the very edge of the counter, biting her lower lip as a faint scowl marred her features. “You’re sure about that? As much faith as I have in your cybersecurity...”

“SHIELD isn’t one to get caught with their pants down,” Clint added, completing Natasha’s thought. 

Tony rolled his eyes, hard. “Well, as much as I love that mental imagery of Fury-” his tone was heavy with derision and sarcasm “-yes I am sure. I’ll have Jarvis run the diagnostics, but I’m sure.”

“From everything we know so far, this doesn’t seem like Fury’s doing,” Bruce added contemplatively. 

Natasha let out an audible sigh. “It isn’t. He wouldn’t bother. He’d be more inclined to send Hill over on false pretenses if he really wanted to know what we were up to. This-” she motioned to the tablet, still the center of attention as Tony began initiating several diagnostic responses- “is not his style.”

“Mhhmm,” Clint agreed, his chin resting on his clasped hands and his elbows braced on the table, but nodding his approval all the same. “Seems like we, and this whole AIM thing, got kicked up the chain.”

“What is up the chain of command from the Director?” Steve asked, perplexed.

“You said it, Cap. Command is,” Clint clarified.

“I still don’t understand exactly what, or who, that is,” Rhodes said, dropping into the conversation.

“Think of it as the World Security Counsel’s hand inside of SHIELD. It’s main function is oversight, so this level of interference is- well it’s rare, to say the least,” Natasha said.

“Alright, but  _ who  _ is it. Is there any name at all attached to it?” he pushed again.

Clint ran a hand through his already sleep-tousled hair. “Who’s the guy now, Nat? That- what’s his face guy- like, used to be all buddy buddy with Fury?”

She frowned, thinking. “Pratt? Price? Something like that...”

“Pierce,” Clint exclaimed, sure of it. “Alexander Pierce. That’s the guy.”

“Well screw that guy,” Sam muttered under his breath, arms crossed.

“Hmm, two can play this game, buddy,” Tony said to no one in particular, hands a blur as he set about typing and swiping here and there in a rapid flurry of movement. “Stick your nose in my business, I’ll stick mine in yours.”

“Tony-” Steve started, moving as if to stop him but halting himself. “Whatever you’re doing, I’m sure it isn’t the best way to handle the situation.”

Tony, looking smug and pleased with himself, swiped the screen up with a larger hand gesture, and a large blue hologram screen appeared above the counter across the back wall of the kitchen. Natasha had to quickly vacate her seat on the far edge of it. At first, it was a little disorienting to try and see what was going on, with pages appearing in all corners of the screen, moving text scrolling by, and pictures popping up and being replaced with more pictures. When he got a second to process it though, it looked like... shit. 

_ Shit _ . Clint clenched his jaw, his hands firmly gripping the edge of the countertop. What it looked like was the SHIELD database. And, given the red tabs at the top of the pages, the significantly redacted portions of text, and the fact that the personnel file open belonged to Pierce himself, it looked like a very highly classified, very high security, very thoroughly restricted level of the SHIELD database.

“Fuck- Tony,” Clint yelled at him, more taken by surprise than angry. “You can’t just do that! Get out of there- SHIELD monitors this shit-”

“-even if you broke through the security measures you’re leaving your fingerprints everywhere,” Natasha interjected, reacting in about the same manner.

“I didn’t ‘break through’ anything. Please, I started making myself a back door into this thing the moment I knew it existed-”

“Semantics, Tony.” Bruce shook his head. 

“Are you fucking crazy?” Clint was on his feet now, bearing down on the man who was still typing away, not paying them a lick of attention. “Do you have any idea how compromised that makes the database? How many agents and operations-”

“-Tony, you need to stop-” Steve interjected.

“-how many  _ lives _ you’re putting in danger?”

“I’m not compro-” he shook his head, “-it’s still secure, just not from me.”

“SHIELD will be onto you in seconds,  _ if  _ they aren’t already,” Natasha said cooly.

“That’s the point, dearest. I want them to know. It’s only fair and equitable.”

“Stark, I mean it. Get out of there,  _ now _ ,” Natasha demanded with an icy glare, her tone alone enough to cause the heart to falter for a quick beat. 

Clint was one step away from grabbing and physically wrestling the damn tablet out of his hands when Tony appeared to finish whatever concerning activity he was doing. The hologram shut down after the personnel file faded away. Tony dropped the device with a clatter on the marble countertop. 

What irked Clint the most was how Tony leaned back looking utterly pleased with himself.

“You idiot,” he groaned. “You stupid excuse for an adult- and I am the last person you should hear that from, mind you. That is possibly one of the most asinine-”

“Oh cool your jets, Hawkguy. I didn’t access anything confidential, or copy anything, or leave anything behind.”

“Then what did you do?” Sam insisted.

“Added ‘jackass’ under the current aliases category.”

“ _ Tony _ .” Steve dropped his head, hands at his temples like afflicted by a sudden headache. And in a way, he was. A living, breathing, chronic one.

“All you did? Oh, well then, that’s fine. Just fine,” Clint said with the type of smile that flashed just a little too much teeth, and the kind of friendly tone always followed by cleaning blood off the floor. “Let’s just list off the reasons why that was a compulsive dumbass decision, number one being that Pierce has drawn and quartered people for less,” Clint said, counting off his fingers.

“I highly doubt that,” Tony said.

“Secondly, SHIELD is going to know you accessed information you shouldn’t have. And there will be consequences, Tony,” Natasha stated. “They don’t take kindly to this level of a breach.”

“Fury already hates me, what’s new?”

Sam jumped in, adding, “Thirdly, they are going to assume, based on how pointless that was and the timing of it, that we know they’re surveilling us. So we lost that advantage.”

“They tripped over an alarm. It immediately set security protocols into motion, and Jarvis kicked them out of the system. It’s pretty obvious by then that you’ve been detected,” Tony explained. “There was never any advantage to be had.”

“Then consider this, Stark. Command is only going to turn up the pressure and increase surveillance, and that is going to make doing anything- like, oh I don’t know,” Clint laughed, laying on the sarcasm heavily, “breaking into Blackbriar- a helluva lot harder to do while staying under the radar.”

“Yeah, that has the potential to be a pain, but it doesn’t make it impossible. We’ll be fine.”

“And, of all the times, of all the situations in which a back door into SHIELD could be useful,” Banner said, sounding disappointed, “you chose to use it now? For that? They’ll find it now, and they’ll close it.”

Tony inhaled sharply, wincing a little at that. “Yeah, alright, I’ll- I’ll concede that one. That’s, not gonna lie, that’s unfortunate.”

“And finally, let’s not forget that somehow, in some way, the higher ups are gonna find a reason to pin this bullshit on me,” Clint complained, slouching back down into his chair. “Thanks a lot.”

“Hardly,” Natasha spoke up, sounding bitter but resigned. “We both know I’m the one who’s supposed to be handling him.”

“Handling?” Tony echoed, rather put off. “What do you mean handling? SHIELD doesn’t handle me-”

Clint and Natasha ignored him. “Technically we’re  _ both _ supposed to watch him, but they like you more than me so I’m the one who’s gonna take the heat for it,” Clint continued, frowning.

“What? Supposed to  _ watch _ me? What the hell-”

“Clint, from day one, when Fury pulled us into his office, all three of us knew that I, as the responsible one of us, was going to head this assignment.”

“The hell? I’m an assignment now? What twisted-”

“Excuse me? There was, and still is, equal responsibility here-"

“Oh honey,” she laughed, “keep telling yourself that-”

“-who made  _ me _ , ME, an  _ assignment _ -”

“What part of ‘partners’, or ‘team’, or 'unit' sounds like unequal responsibilities to you?”

“The part where every team needs a leader.”

“-garbage I tell you. Garbage-”

“-Oh, well then,” Clint rolled his eyes, “if that’s how you’re being. I’ll kindly remind you that everyone, and I mean  _ everyone _ , calls us ‘Clint and Natasha’, and never ‘Natasha and Clint’.”

“That’s ridiculous, they do not-”

“-yes they do-”

“-even if they did, that doesn’t mean anything-”

“-yes it does-”

“-hey, Bonnie and Clyde! Angelina Jolie, Cary Elwes, I’m gonna need some details here-

“Tony!” they both snapped, whirling on him. “Stop. Talking,” Natasha demanded. “You’ve done enough.”

Clint took a breath, slid out of his chair and stepped back from the tight circle of bodies around the kitchen island. He justified his momentary escape by moving over to the coffee machine for a refill. Looking down at the mug though, it occurred to him that he should probably ease off the caffeine. 

With that thought in mind, Clint just about fumbled and dropped mug, pot, and coffee when Tony spoke next.

“You know, I just don’t get it. One minute you look like you’re about to kill each other, the next it’s this flirting thing again- make up your mind already would you?”

There was a heartbeat of silence, of breaths caught in throats, then two beats, then three, and the electrified silence dragged on. Tony seemed to recognize his mistake immediately after the words left his mouth. His smile wavered, and died completely when he glanced cautiously at Natasha to see her glaring ice at him, in truly rare form, looking downright murderous. He froze, unable to move, or even to look away.  

Natasha too realized her mistake, somewhere quietly in the very back of her mind. She should have rolled her eyes and brushed it off. She should have projected the same sort of complete ambivalence she always did whenever Tony ran his mouth, or made a comment of that nature. And honestly, it was a fairly common occurrence for him to do so. 

But it was too late for that. She had already reacted, immediate and without the ability to change course. She had been thrown off and her instincts put her on the defensive; and her defense, she knew, was also her offense. Too often, she though. Too often did something to do with Clint put her in this position- on the defensive or striking out, without being able to rationalize it first. 

That was the heart of the problem. That was why she said what she’d said. That, she could rationalize.

Everyone else- everyone who was not Tony or Natasha- immediately dropped their heads and averted their gazes and did everything in their power to make themselves as small as possible, or ideally invisible. They knew what a mistake he had made. Tony quiet bluntly and tactlessly addressed the elephant in the room. There was an unspoken yet powerful agreement that no one, ever, without life-or-death-necessary reasons, would get anywhere near that very large, very deadly, very assassins’-love-life-shaped elephant in the room.

Steve wanted to throttle Tony. Damn him, that impulsive, immature asshole. The man was not on a very good streak today. 

In reality, Steve recalled, it wasn’t an unspoken agreement at all. Over a month ago, they had all had this discussion, in person and in secret to hammer out the rules while “the deadly duo” (as Tony had then dubbed them) were away on a SHIELD assignment.  

It had been Pepper (of course Pepper of all people, perhaps the most attuned to human relationships, and really the best adjusted, most normal person of them all) to question if maybe, just maybe, there had been something there. Tony naturally leapt on the idea and ran with it, but the rest of them took some convincing, requiring details, and some rather outlandish though in depth analysis to connect the dots. 

At least, at first it seemed pretty out there. 

In all the time Steve had known the two agents, they had seemed like nothing more than partners, and best friends of course. That was, admittedly, a lot between them, but still it was nothing  _ more _ . Steve had maintained that viewpoint for far longer than the others, who began to read into things too much in his opinion. In fact, it wasn’t until recently, when some issues seemed to come up between them, that Steve began to see what everyone else saw. And, damn, did he see it.

For being secret agents or whatever, they really weren’t all that great at keeping something like that a secret- not from friends, it seemed.

Meanwhile Clint, on the outskirts due to his fortuitous trip to the coffeemaker, seriously debated making a silent retreat from the room posthaste. He felt paralyzed and about to explode all at once, mind racing, and while he presented it differently, he recognized he probably felt quite the same as Natasha in that moment. (Equally… horrified? Panicked? Awkward? Was that flirting? He didn’t think so. That was what they always did, wasn’t it? But then, did they all pick up on that? Both the tension now, and the… stuff from before? God he hoped not. Damn it, damn it, damn it damn it damn it…)

“Or, how about I kill you instead,” Natasha drawled out as she glided toward Tony. Each step was measured and precise, her voice silky smooth, everything about her predatory. “Right here, right now, and so many problems go away…”

Steve was never one to let an awkward situation simmer, or to let one teammate murder another. “Or, we can all remember that the kitchen is a weapon-free zone-”

“I could kill you with my bare hands.”

“- and we can go back to discussing the real problem, which is-”

“Stark.”

“Which is,” Steve corrected, louder this time, “AIM, Blackbriar, and the fact that we are being monitored by someone inside SHIELD who wants us to stay well away from it, for whatever reason. So, let’s all take a deep breath, collect ourselves, forgive Tony-”

“Uh, that implies a transgression has been made-”

“-and move on,” Steve finished, fixing Natasha with a firm but imploring look. 

After a few brief seconds, she relented, rolling her eyes. Steve began to turn his back, but before he did, he saw Natasha exchange a fleeting look with Clint from across the room. While he was really beginning to get the sign language part down, he didn’t pretend to understand more than the smallest fraction of the silent language the two shared in nothing but looks and the slightest nods or hint of an expression. 

Still from what he could tell, at its core, the private communication seemed to ask, ‘Okay?’ and in response, ‘Yes, we’re good.’

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Clint, Natasha, Steve, Tony, Bruce, Thor, and Sam relocated to a conference room on the floor below. Over the course of the next half hour, they seemed to settle into the more comfortable atmosphere, with less threats of death being tossed around, and absolutely no more poking at the elephant. 

The conversation revolved around when, how, and if they might evade SHIELD’s interference in order to follow through with their plans. It had become clear that it was certainly more difficult now. On that, everyone could agree. What that meant for them and how they should respond to it, however, was not as simple a thing to agree on.

“We should offer some sort of show of good faith,” Steve offered.

“Like an olive branch show of good faith?” Bruce asked.

Tony frowned. “Or are you talking about a trojan horse show of good faith...” 

“Both,” Clint suggested. “Both is good.”

“I don’t know, but something that says we’re staying in our lane, following orders,” Steve explained.

“That’s a bit harder to do after Tony went and did the exact opposite,” Sam mused, and he couldn’t help but put a little jab in his words.

Tony responded by rolling his eyes in dramatic fashion, incorporating a head roll and a less than polite hand gesture aimed at Sam. “Jesus- how many times do I have to say it? It was important that ‘A’, we show we wouldn’t tolerate that kind of spying, ‘B’, we make them think twice about trying that shit again, because they don’t know what I’m capable of now, ‘C’-”

“I said, enough of that,” Steve said harshly, cutting him off. “Both of you, stop it. You aren’t helping anything.”

“Harder, perhaps, but not impossible,” Thor offered in support. Given he hadn’t quite caught up on the whole technology thing (Steve really didn’t know why everyone called him out, and not Thor. The guy was way slower to pick it up than he was.), the demigod had stayed mostly quiet in the whole matter.

“Actually,” Clint said, thinking out loud, “we could work it to our advantage. You know, because SHIELD is on the defensive now. They know we caught them making the first move, and by every rule in the books, that puts them on the wrong side of the negotiating table. Even despite,” he added, “Stark’s reciprocal move. 

“Okay, I understand that, but how does that put us at an advantage?” Bruce asked.

“It’s-” Clint struggled to find the words. How to explain a nuanced point only made clear after months of reverse interrogation training… “It’s more about the psychology of the thing.”

Natasha of course understood what he was trying to explain. “Someone on the defensive is more inclined to try to prove themself. To prove their worth, prove they’re still in charge, prove that they’re correct, whatever fits the circumstances. You can use that inclination to nudge someone in the direction you’d like, without them necessarily knowing it.”

“Sounds like a load of psycho-babble to me,” Tony said, yawning. “Or that Inception movie.”

“Nope, actually it is  _ super  _ handy if you can be subtle about it. For example,” Clint began, launching into what was not so hypothetical of a situation for him, “you’re tied to a chair in a cinder block room, you know that help is on the way but it’ll take time, there’s no getting out on your own, and the only things inside this room is a baseball bat, a blowtorch, and a British guy with a vendetta. Now, baseball bat, or blowtorch,” Clint debated, moving his hands like he was weighing the scales. “If one of those is gonna be used on you, there’s an obvious choice. Now, you can’t tell this guy, ‘Hey, please don’t use the blowtorch, how about the bat instead’, because all he’ll do is fetch the gasoline. So instead, you look at the bat in the corner and say ‘What the fuck is that, dude? You go to the effort to bring me down here, and you’re gonna what? Hit me with a wooden stick? Like seriously, it isn’t even a metal one’. And guess what happens. Guess.”

Clint didn’t get much audience participation. 

“Well then I’ll tell you,” he continued. “You get the shit beaten out of you with a baseball bat, and that sucks, but it gives you the time you need without the irreparable damage. Live to be barbecued another day.” 

It took a good minute or two to let that sink in. 

“Alright, I get how that scenario works,” Tony conceded. “How that applies to an institution, rather than a British individual, is far less clear.”

“We aren’t combatting the entirety of SHIELD, only the decisionmakers, the individuals inside Command,” Natasha explained. “And the goading is already done. They’re looking for a way now to reassert their authority and the higher ground. So we approach it as business as usual, offer them an olive branch, and they get what they want. And because they want it, they won’t question it, or us.”

“In a perfect world maybe, but that all sounds like a best case scenario play-by-play. Who says it actually works out that way?” Sam was open to the idea, but wasn’t quite buying it yet. 

“Welcome to psychological warfare 101, gentlemen,” Natasha said with a smile sweet enough to make anyone uneasy. “They’re the basics. They’re effective. Trust me.”

“Alright, let’s assume for the moment that’s how we get these guys off our backs at least long enough to get the information we need,” Steve said. “There’s still the question of what we make into this ‘olive branch’.”

Clint inhaled as if to speak, but stopped himself. Brow furrowed, he sank back into his office chair, fingers tapping on the armrests. Well… he hadn’t thought that far ahead.

Clint backed out of the conversation that carried on around the table. They debated most importantly what this show of good faith would entail, but also the effectiveness of words in comparison to action, how their intent may be construed, the various avenues they may take to project ‘business as usual’, and they sidetracked into what ‘usual’ even looked like. The flow of words went on and on as Clint lost interest and lost track of it.

He looked up across the table to Natasha, who had also been mostly silent. She caught his eye and raised a brow marginally in a question. ‘What?’

He glanced around the table, directing her attention to the others engaged in conversation before looking back to her. Shrugging one shoulder by a barely noticeable margin, he inclined his head toward her slightly. ‘Have a plan?’

She dropped her eyes to the open space of the table between them. Clint watched her intently as she thought. He watched her teeth graze her bottom lip, saw the minute crease of her brow, the flashing red strands of hair that fell loose across her face, followed the gentle slope of her cheek and the sweep of her eyelashes. And her eyes, though downcast, were as brilliant green as ever. 

He sharply turned his head away, only a fraction, but enough to force his eyes away. He felt like his chest was in a vice, a clawed hand clamped around his heart and intent on crushing it to dust. Damn it- just, fuck him. Fucking fuck him over a hundred times. 

He hadn’t- hadn’t really given himself more that a few seconds to think about all this. He’d just, shoved it down and accepted it, or at least he told himself he accepted it. He’d- he had come close to really-  _ really _ \- thinking about it, and coming to terms with it, when he was sleep deprived and running on fumes that morning and Steve had been pushing him to say something, but he didn’t. He just got angry instead.

And fuck if being angry all the time didn’t just  _ hurt. _

He felt it, the anger and the pain like a perpetual ache in his bones. He hated everything. Himself, this dysfunctional team, this tower, the constant need to do something he didn’t want to do, to be something he didn’t think he could be. He wanted to hate her. For what she did. He wanted to, tried to even. But he couldn’t. 

He could never do that.

The fact that he tried only left him disgusted with himself. But that was nothing new, just like the anger. He was familiar with that.

And all of it felt so, so very wrong. He hated that, too. He wanted it to feel like normal again. He wanted to do what she had said- to turn back the clock and just return to being best friends and partners. But that felt broken, like the pieces were scrambled up and missing and the completed picture was riddled with holes.

And so he couldn’t do it. Even when they had been trying that morning- at least he knew  _ he _ was trying- so damn hard to pretend like it was all normal and he was fine and they would be fine,  _ it wasn’t _ . 

He hated that he didn’t know how to fix it.

But now wasn’t the time to think about that, much less to handle it- whatever that would mean. But then, that’s what he always told himself. It wasn’t the time, or the place, or it could wait until the next day, or the next conversation, or the next something. 

He had told Natasha months ago that it wasn’t the time to talk about what had almost killed him in Cairo, told himself he and Natasha would really talk about what their relationship was- beyond the physical element- eventually, but… then he just… they just didn’t.

He took a breath, and he brushed it all away. Ironically enough, now, in this room full of people, just wasn’t the time to do anything about it.

When he looked up next, he found Natasha eyeing him, trying to assess what was going on inside his head. But hell, often enough he couldn’t answer that question. She gave him an all too familiar look. ‘You alright?’

He nodded. ‘Yes’.  As practiced as their language of looks and nods was, and as effective as it was at passing covert messages across a crowded table and through the middle of an increasingly intense conversation, it didn’t necessary allow them to share the details and depth they would need. And sign was just too obvious. So that left Clint directing Natasha’s attention with a look down to his hand, still on his chair’s armrest. With a series of long and short silent taps, he spelled out ‘Just thinking.’

Sure, they probably weren’t the only ones in the room familiar with Morse code (Clint didn’t have cause to say that very often), or competent enough to make them capable of deciphering their covert conversation. But simple steps- like adding a few words to the vocal debate when tapping away a completely different message at your side and avoiding obvious staring when on the receiving end of their under-the-table correspondence- could be taken to avoid that issue entirely.

You can’t decipher what you never pick up on in the first place.

Natasha, eyes on Tony as he was talking animatedly,  responded, ‘One of us needs to smooth things over with SHIELD.’

Clint waited a moment, thinking. That could be problematic. ‘Other options?’

‘No other ideas.’ She stopped for a moment. ‘Was going to sit this out anyway. I’ll go.’

‘And do what?’

‘What expected to from the start . Be eyes and ears inside the Avengers.’

‘Inside man? Never works.’

She paused, lips pursed. ‘Will for me. Not anyone else. But for me.’ 

Natasha knew it. They both knew it. She had a reputation of being cold, calculating, shrewd. Perhaps no one would expect her to ever betray her partner, but if it were in her best interest, they’d believe she would turn on this team. Clint and Natasha were always seen, and for the longest time felt, as outsiders here anyway, not belonging, no matter how many aliens they killed in New York. They were basically a coincidence anyway. If Loki hadn’t chosen to really fuck up Clint’s week, they both would never have been so involved.

Clint took a measured breath and let it out slowly. ‘Okay. Would have to be something good.’

‘Agreed... Ideas?’

They both stopped for a long while to consider that one. What would be good enough to make them believe her, damaging enough to the team for them to back off, but that ultimately wasn’t  _ too _ damaging…

Clint slowly felt himself drawn back into the greater conversation, not that he found it to be going anywhere. It dragged on in the same manner, always what seemed like a solid proposition being quickly undone by rapid brainstorming of all of the troubles and conflicts it posed. They may have all been on the same team, and most of them on the same page, but it was getting tense, frustration at their inability to make any sort of real headway growing. Always one step forward, two steps back.

And so it carried on. 

Until, that is, it came to a rather abrupt and heart attack inducing stop.

That same agitation which put everyone on the edge of their seats also resulted in  _ everyone _ jumping out of their seats, startled and on high alert and ready for a fight when a jarring, loud and unfamiliar alarm sounded over the tower’s speakers. 

“What the f-” Tony started, spilling his drink on himself as he nearly dropped his mug, jumping to his feet and looking around wildly. “Jarvis cut that out!”

The incessant blaring sound stopped mid-blast, and Steve surveyed the scene. Most everyone had simply reacted with a few choice swear words and by leaping to their feet, eyes wide and head on a swivel as they sought the source of danger. When their wits came about them, however, they instead looked for the source of that damned noise. 

Clint had been on his feet, semi-crouched and focused on the door- the room’s only point of entry. More noteworthy was the fact that Natasha had somehow made it around the corner of the table in that short time to mimic Clint’s stance to cover his side, a knife in hand. They quickly eased however, as did everyone, Natasha sliding the five inch blade back into her boot after a moment. Clint, who must have noticed the same thing Steve did about her behavior by the look he gave her, slid back into his chair, still eyeing her oddly. 

Yes, he had gone to switch out of his t-shirt and sweats after breakfast too, but his wardrobe change didn’t include strapping on a bowie knife. Not in the tower anyway. At the same time, he wouldn’t expect anything less than a constant  state of ‘over-prepared to annihilate with extreme prejudice’ from his partner. What stayed with him most was her immediate positioning at his flank. At that speed, it was a kneejerk, instinctual reaction. And it made a little part of him want to read into it way too much.

“Man, what the hell is it now?” Sam demanded to know, irritated.

“Is that SHIELD again? Did they breach something?” Bruce asked, sitting back down after the initial panic, willing himself to calm down (which, was probably the best idea anyone had had so far).

Tony shook his head fervently. “No, it’s fucking not. Jarvis?”

“Apologies, Sir. You  _ had _ set an alarm awaiting the completion of the alpha-ram processing protocols. Your request was to hear it anywhere in the building.” The AI did not sound apologetic. 

“Wait-” Tony faltered, mind racing for a second before continuing in a rush of words. “Wait, it’s done? You’ve run them all? And? Was it successful? Jesus, J, did you find it? Why didn’t you just say so? Where the hell is it?"

“Sir, I am more capable of addressing questions when-”

“Jarvis!” Tony yelled at the ceiling, frustrated and excited and with too much to say in order to say any of it, like a toddler on Christmas morning. “Just tell me!”

“Yes, the compiled inputs were successful at locating the signal. Coordinates are currently being constructed, for your convenience.”

Tony snatched for the tablet which he had carried with him, quickly swiping and typing in a few commands until he reached a loading bar, waiting impatiently and staring at the increasing percentages like it would make it go faster.

“Tony, a little explanation would go a long way,” Steve suggested. In a matter of seconds, the nine other people in the room pushed their way into the huddle to gather around the still seated Tony.

“It’s finished. I know it ran a  _ little _ bit over the projected time frame, with complications and all, but it’s done. It managed to overcome the shielding and the signal scrambling and any second now- any second…” he tapped the edge of the tablet impatiently, watching the bar climb.

“Stark, what the hell are you talking about,” Clint demanded, glaring daggers at the man.

“I’m talking about  _ finally  _ locating my freaking hijacked jet is what I’m talking about,” Tony said. “They think they can take  _ my  _ technology, I don’t think so, the bastards…”

“So you have a location? We found it?” Sam asked, excited, but not quite understanding what was going on.

“Well, mostly ‘me’, not ‘we’, but yes,” Tony responded offhandedly, not really paying attention as he was tapping more frantically in an attempt to make it load faster. “Oh, come the fuck on,” Tony complained at how slow going it was. “Jarvis? What is going _ on _ here?”

“Again, apologies Sir. The data is streaming in as we speak. The precise location is taking time to calculate.”

“Well fuck.” Tony sighed, slumping back and sliding down into his chair. “Okay, thanks J.”

A thought occurred to Clint. As much as he wanted his second favorite bow back, this, unfortunately or fortunately, might be just what they need. He spun on his heel to face Natasha, who apparently had reached the same conclusion.

Hands moving rapidly, not bothering if Steve could interpret it or anyone saw it, he signed, ‘We give them the location of the jet.’

“I think so,” she agreed aloud, but continued in sign. ‘I explain this is what we’ve been doing, hunting down the jet, despite the clear order to stay out of it.’

“Uh, what are you two up to,” Sam asked, hesitant.

“Just a minute,” Clint said, continuing signing to Natasha. ‘It would meet their expectations. It isn’t too damaging to us but it still hurts.’

‘And assuming they know everything, they back off,’ Natasha finished, very much on the same page as Clint.

“Solid,” Clint affirmed, sitting.

“Very,” she concurred, sitting across from him.

“Care to share now?” Bruce asked, expecting a response like the rest of them. Steve, however, had very clearly followed along. Clint could see the wheels turning in his head, but from what he could tell, he didn’t seem immediately opposed.

“Steve signs now, by the way,” Clint addressed his partner.

“Oh yeah? How well?” she asked, amused.

“Pretty well,” he nodded agreeably. “Could be better.”

“Guys? The consensus is…?” Sam pleaded with them one more time.

With this new intrigue, everyone had forgotten Tony, sitting quietly with his tablet at the far end of the table. Therefore, heads turned when he spoke up unexpectedly. 

“The consensus is... Iowa. The Quinjet is in _ Iowa _ .” He looked down the table at everyone, more than a little taken aback. “But, what the fuck is in Iowa?”

There was a pregnant pause, which Clint broke gracelessly a moment later. “Nothing,” he laughed, looking up at the blasted heavens for this dose of irony- his home state, the place he had no interest in returning to. “Nothing is in fucking Iowa.”

“Well, we’re getting my ride back. Looks like we’ll see it for ourselves,” Tony said. 

“Actually,” Steve interrupted cautiously, still thinking over every word. “I don’t think we will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave kudos, comments, or arsenic in my inbox. Thanks!


	12. a man of my word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha ingratiates herself with Command and Clint just wants to get shit done so he can go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long chapter. Not as long, but still.   
> Also, for those of you waiting for some action, rather than a million and a half chapters of relationships and drama, here you go.
> 
> Forgive my typos. There shouldn't be that many, but really I could only bear to reread and self-beta a little over half of this before I decided to post because if not it'd be another week at least.

It was a pleasant room for an interrogation, Natasha mused. Perhaps the most pleasant she had ever been in for that unfortunate purpose. Her gaze wandered from the still life painting of a bowl of fruit on the wall to the small potted orchid on the corner of the lacquered cherrywood desk. The slatted shades on the adjacent window were drawn up, revealing the cold dark midnight blue verging on black of the winter night sky. Any moon or starlight was washed out by the city’s lights. The only other furniture in the office consisted of the chair behind the desk (currently unoccupied), the armchair before the desk which Natasha occupied, and the identical one beside her as well as a lamp on the corner table behind her. 

It was all very quiet. 

But despite the pretense of pleasantness and the unoffensive atmosphere, there was an element of deception to it: an underlying malignant air which would perhaps have gone undetected by the less experienced observer. But it had Natasha’s skin prickling. 

Even with the ventilation, the air was stale, dusty, and the orchid looked to be withering; there was a poison that clung to this place. The surface of the desk was absent of any kind of trinket or picture or personal affect that suggested any personality occupied the space. The painting was nothing more than a mass produced print, something that looked like it came with the frame when the latter was purchased. And everything about the room, everything about the matching wooden desk and table, the fabric of the armchairs, the potted plant and framed print, the off-beige walls, the dark grey carpeting, and the utter lack of anything personal, suggested it came right off the pages of an office catalogue.

The only difference was in the thick- too thick- probably shatter proof, bullet proof, dark tinted window. It was the type of window that deterred snipers.

So yes, it was a perfectly pleasant room for an interrogation, and very well suited to its purpose. There was no need for cement floors with a drain in the center, no need for hosing down the walls afterward, or for restraining guests or soundproofing walls or for storing weapons and the tools of the trade. No, none of that. This room was for a different monster entirely.

Natasha had flown into D.C. that afternoon. Currently seated in one of the upper level high security clearance offices of the Triskelion building, she waited. She sat legs crossed, hands folded in her lap, looking at ease in every sense of the word, but she remained alert, present, and ready to move at the first sign something was off.

She heard the footsteps approaching before the door behind her glided open on well oiled hinges, heard the semi-labored breathing of the man she waited for, and felt the air move with the door and his entrance into the room well before she saw him enter her periphery. She refused to turn and look, to grace his presence with anything more than casual disdain and extreme indifference. He had kept her waiting, after all.

Jasper Sitwell, a bald, rather unassuming man in his forties, made his way around the furniture to be seated behind the desk. Level 7 agent or not, Natasha couldn’t imagine him winning in any sort of physical fight. He looked soft and pliable, was not in the best of shape, and she doubted he could even pull off a menacing look if he tried (which may seem shallow, but really it was a necessary and very useful skill in their line of work). He appeared completely innocuous. But that didn’t make him any less of a danger in this setting, where guns and knives only got you so far.

There was a reason he had a cushy office job with a very low risk of personal harm at the SHIELD headquarters in D.C., rather than working from HQ outposts, or god forbid in the field. A different skillset or area of expertise put an agent here.

He settled into his seat and looked her up and down as if trying to ascertain something she wasn’t telling him, which was a lot, not that he would ever know what. She cocked her head to the side, staring him down from across the desk as her lips curled into a faint predatory smile. 

Even with his seemingly harmless appearance, he didn’t crack or even falter for a second under her gaze. Sitwell picked a pen up from the desk, clicking it a few times and spinning it around in his fingers while sizing her up. She tapped her foot slowly, watching for any sign of unease or hesitation upon which she could pounce and twist to her advantage. 

This was her wheelhouse as much as it was his.

A minute of silence filled with nothing more than the occasional clicking of the pen passed. Then another. It was tense in a way, beneath the facade of ease and indifference. Natasha refused to speak first. She refused to ask the question.

After a moment, it was Sitwell who answered it regardless. “Your intel panned out.”

She raised an eyebrow, lips curling further into a smirk. “You don’t have to tell me that. You were the one who doubted it.”

He paused his movements, smiling pleasantly, but it was false and purposefully arranged just like everything else in the room. “I was not the only one, nor the one you needed to convince.”

“Oh? Questioning where my loyalties lie, are we?” she asked, amusement creeping into her tone and expression, her smile growing to show a not entirely friendly flash of teeth. “That’s the most exciting thing to happen to me all week.”

It was a lie- AIM had happened, Blackbriar had happened (not that he knew that), her… everything with Clint had happened (again, that was none of anyone’s business), and finally this business with finding the Quinjet had happened- but that was the point.

It was his turn to look amused. “A disappointing week then…” he trailed off, setting his pen down purposefully, parallel to an identical one. He leaned back in his chair, dipping his hand into his suit jacket’s inside pocket, causing Natasha to suppress the instinctual reaction to move, to strike, to expect a weapon. His hand emerged with a small black flash drive- nonlethal, not a weapon, she categorized, the one she had given him an hour ago- between his thumb and index finger. “That isn’t to say however, that you haven’t been keeping busy, if this is anything to go by.” He turned it over in his hand, examining it more thoroughly than it deserved or than was necessary.

She dropped the smirk. “That wasn’t of my doing,” she said with an air of nonchalance. “That’s all Stark and Rogers.” She couldn’t help but give a satisfied, smug look. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Then I suppose it’s Stark and Rogers we should be concerned about, is that it?” he asked in a tone that suggested he hardly believed her. He was, what she would call, highly suspicious. But, at the same time, she had him hooked, and that was all she needed.

“If you’re asking me- which I don’t think you are- I’d say energy and resources would be best spent there-” she flicked a wrist outward in a vague direction “-than here-” she motioned to herself. “The Avengers are planning to move on the jet’s coordinates in the morning. If you have boots on the ground anywhere in the tristate you should be able to beat them to it with plenty of time.”

He leaned in toward her, his hands grasping the sides of his desk. “We’ll see. And then I’ll decide if I’m thanking you or not.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Hawkeye, what’s your twenty?” Steve sounded a bit restless over the comms.

“At ease, Captain,” Clint assured. “Situation normal, all as expected.” He continued down the hallway, clocking the automated security camera at the corner and waiting for it to turn before darting around its blind spot and moving out of view again. Even with Stark having taken control of the building’s security features after Clint tapped him into the system once he breached (Ventilation systems. Don’t ever underestimate them.), Clint still didn’t want to leave anything to chance or take any avoidable risks. 

“You do know that it’s the officer of higher rank who tells their soldiers to be ‘at ease’, don’t you?”

“Hmm, whatever,” Clint muttered, ducking into a doorway to gather his bearings for a moment. “Not in the military, Cap. Never have been.”

“Why am I not surprised,” he heard Tony say distantly, like he’d said it away from the comms and it wasn’t meant to be overheard.

Tony, who was set up in a hotel suite on the other side of Manhattan with what would be enough computers, hard drives, and technology to make the neighbors more than a little suspicious if they weren’t careful about it, had put the security feeds on a loop. That way, Clint could jump up and down waving his arms right in front of them and the only video on display would be an empty hallway from an hour ago. And while he couldn’t shut down heat and motion sensors without the security personnel that were monitoring feeds on the ground floor noticing, he did isolate them from the rest of the system, meaning they couldn’t trigger any alarms. 

Clint took that to mean he was in the clear, but still he couldn’t be too careful.

“Care to explain what that means, Stark?” Clint asked. He knelt down to swipe an access card at the next door, staying low as a precaution when he pushed through it and closing it gently behind him. 

The key card had been in the file Fury provided, along with a few critical passwords for number pad locks, guard shift information which allowed them to hit between rotations and when the new shift would work from the bottom up, and the building schematics and floor plans Clint was currently using from memory to guide himself through hallways, offices, and eventually elevator shafts. (The elevators were shut down at night and security would easily see and hear if they were activated, and the stairwells were an unknown factor with alarms and whatnot that they didn’t have time to case properly.)

“I just mean, I don’t think you’d do well in a military environment,” Tony recovered, “based on- ya know. And, are you just avoiding security cameras? Because I have no idea where you are, which, could be a problem if you run into trouble.

Clint huffed out a laugh, nearing the elevator doors. “Not taking any risks, Stark. Because avoiding trouble is the goal. And as to the not doing well in the military part, yeah, my shrink tells me I have the wrong kind of savior complex and a problem with authority.”

“Not to violate any boundaries,” Steve started, “but what is the ‘wrong kind of savior complex’?”

“Eh, the kind that gets me killed, apparently. Mostly it’s just crazy psycho-babble and over analytic- ah- well, shit. How the fuck am I supposed to…”

“What’s wrong? What happened-” Steve interjected quickly, immediately transitioning into Captain America mode. “Do you need me up there?”

Steve was positioned alongside Sam in a nondescript car parked a block down, present and able in case of emergency, like, the need create an large distraction or to beat up some security guys (who- and Clint just learned this recently- were decked out in tactical gear and armaments like the Secret Service guys who protect the White House, which was… unfortunate for him.” Sam was playing lookout slash getaway driver slash ‘guy staying pretty pissed about being made the getaway driver’, hence his radio silence. He mostly sat there looking grumpy.

“Cool your jets, Cap. An elevator has never bested me before, I don’t think... this one... will-” he gritted the words out through a clenched jaw, grunting with the effort of having put his shoulder into the elevator doors he had managed to pry apart. He wedged himself between the doors, which were insisting on trying to slide shut again, and put his back against one side and his foot against the other, effectively stopping them for a moment to catch his breath. “Damn, I’m glad you’re not up here Steve. You’d make this look too easy.”

Clint could almost hear Steve roll his eyes, and if he shut his eyes he could most certainly see that look on his face. “I still don’t understand why you insist on being in their by yourself- have you seen those guys?” 

“Less is more when it comes to these sort of things, Cap. One person is all it takes. Less risk. And there’s no room for amateurs- sorry,” he was quick to add, “but regardless of whatever it says about me or you, I’ve done this quite a lot more than you guys, and if I had to watch out for anyone else it would just slow me down.” 

“You wouldn’t have made Romanoff a getaway driver,” Sam complained. “She’d be up there with you.”

“Oh excuse me, are you a five foot nothin’ buck twenty when soaking wet with shoulders narrow enough to fit through the tiniest ventilation shafts and legs that crush dudes’ skulls for fun? I musta missed that.” He shoved at the doors again, pushing against the weight that just would not give. “Fuck- this has to be a fire hazard or something. Also, my point about amateurs still holds. She’s done it quite a bit, too.”

“Do you always talk this much when breaking into places full of people with guns? That’s what seems like the hazard here,” Tony pointed out.

“You want me to shut up, then get the fuck out of my ear, Stark,” Clint said, straining one last time with everything he had, and finally, there was a slightly alarming grinding noise and the resistance gave way. The doors slid open fully, and Clint fell back against the wall at the sudden give. Righting himself, he brushed himself off and swore, “Aww, suit, no…” He’d gone and torn a good deal of stitching in the shoulder. 

“And what I really don’t get, more than anything, is why you chose to wear a suit- like, a straight up formal going to a wedding suit- to a break in,” Sam asked, completely lost.

It was a nice suit: a dark grey, slimming two piece, accompanied by a white button up, deep blue tie, and black dress shoes. Admittedly it wasn’t the best choice of apparel for a shootout, a foot chase, or, say, scaling an elevator shaft, but it did serve a purpose.

“When you break into some place, the fucking last thing you want to do is look like a fucking burglar. That’s how you get shot on sight, Wilson. I believe they call it urban camouflage, but I call it not being a dumbass,” Clint shot back, rolling his eyes. 

“Okay, I get what you’re saying, but no need to be rude about it. Sorry if I don’t make breaking into places a habit.”

Clint was about to respond with something really snarky, but he stopped himself short when he realized why he had so much difficulty getting the elevator doors open. The lift itself was on the ground floor some eight stories down, which he expected. He had only managed to get up this far in the first place because that’s as far as the air conditioning vents could take him before they became to steep and two narrow. But what he had not expected was for the doors to be reinforced and for the barebones infrastructure one could usually find on the sides of the elevator shaft that made climbing it possible to be plated over. Completely. The walls were smooth metal.

“What. The. Fuck,” Clint complained, kicking the wall in frustration. “Are you kidding me? Who does this to a perfectly good elevator shaft? What the hell? Why? Why did they do this?” Clint stopped ranting for long enough to fill the others in for fear of Steve assuming the worst and barreling in to ‘help’. The guy felt useless, as did Sam, and Clint could sympathise with that, but now was not the time.

“Well it seems to me that they took some extra security measures, and that these schematics are outdated a bit,” Tony mused. “And if this is what they did to the elevators, I don’t doubt for a second that bypassing the alarms on those stairwell doors would be any easier. I’ll try and find you an alternate route through the vents or something.”

Clint sighed, rolling his shoulders. “Nah, don’t bother. I got this.” He shrugged his now damaged jacket off and dropped it, rolling up his sleeves to the elbow. 

Tony scoffed, saying “Clint buddy, you’re good, I’ll give you that, but human beings can’t climb twenty-two stories vertically over smooth metal surfaces-”

“Not gonna scale it. I’m climbing the cables.” He took a minute in the hallway to stretch.

“Really, finding another way won’t be that hard, I’m already looking at-”

“Nope. We don’t have time to debate this, Stark. Security floor sweeps are making their way up, and I’ve got a few minutes to get under way. Really, my only concern is shredding my hands up a bit-”

“-that sounds like a pretty legitimate concern,” Steve interjected. “Maybe we should-”

“-but my jacket is already ruined so I’ll just tear it up a bit more and use that-” He had already taken the knife that had been strapped to his ankle and began ripping the jacket to strips, winding and tying it off around his hands and wrists.

“Twenty-two stories, though? Twenty-two? Please re-think this-”

“I’ve done worse.” The chatter in his ear continued, but he largely ignored it. Instead, he fit the knife back into the holster at his ankle and dropped the mangled remains of his suit jacket down the gaping black hole of the shaft. Examining the doors and the ledge closer, he found there was a good three inches and a bit behind the doors, allowing him to shuffle inside of the shaft and slowly, very carefully, slide the doors shut while pressed flat against them. It was awkward as hell, but thankfully it was far easier to maneuver the doors closed than open, now that he hd broken whatever he broke. They glided shut with fairly little effort. The hard part was maintaining his balance and footing.

Taking a deep breath before exhaling, he pushed himself off the doors, twisted, and reached for the cables.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sitwell leaned back comfortably in his seat, smiling. This game of cat and mouse had been carrying on for at least an hour. It was surely nearing midnight, not that the late hour seemed to dissuade the man from dragging this out. In the end though, Natasha would be fine if this took all night and well into morning. Clint and the others needed time. Hell, they were undoubtedly in the midst of their infiltration as they spoke. And if Sitwell thought he could best her simply by depriving them both of sleep that she didn’t even feel she needed, he would be severely disappointed.

“So tell me. Is Agent Barton with Rogers, Stark, and the others on this? He certainly isn’t here with you…”

“Yes,” she answered simply. “With a different-” she looked for the word- “motivation, than I have, but he’s with them right now with the same intention.”

“And what ‘motivation’ would that be?”

“Barton?” She blinked, staring blankly at him as if it were obvious. “Loyalty.”

He considered that for a moment. “Loyalty, to whom? That is the question, now isn’t it.”

“To SHIELD,” she said simply. “To what we do here. And to me. His partner.”

Sitwell raised a brow at that, steepling his hands together. “You hold sway over him then…”

“A great deal,” she confirmed, curling the corner of her mouth with apparent deadly satisfaction. It made her sick to her stomach a little, the act like he was nothing more than a puppet to her, and that he was the type of man who would allow himself to be wrapped around her finger. But it would protect him in the long run, if that is what Sitwell, and Command by default, believed. 

“Well, that is interesting.” He paused yet again, apparently in no hurry to finish the conversation- meeting. Interrogation. Thing. “And what about you, Agent Romanoff. What would you say your motivations are? For some reason I don’t feel you’re the type to allow such, sentimentality, to influence you in such a way.”

There it was. What she was looking for. Time to sell it. “Hmm, no, not out of loyalty,” she agreed. “Purely selfish reasons, I assure you. I quite enjoy my job here. And the Avengers don’t pay the bills now, do they.” Sitwell didn’t respond to that. “And, to be quite blunt, Stark is a spoiled child with the resources to ensure no one can say no, Rogers is a star-spangled moron who would bite a bullet for sentimentality, Banner is unreliable at best and catastrophic at worst, Thor thinks with his hammer, and everyone else follows them around like lost dogs.”

She put venom in her words. A certain amount of disgust and complete indifference that she didn’t feel. At all. It was all wrong. But the easiest character to portray was the one everyone expected you to be. And he believed her. She saw that he did. And she felt it.

“So if you were to put it simply…”

“I don’t belong there. We are agents of SHIELD, and we don’t belong on that team. We were an accident in the first place.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Clint hauled himself up once more with both arms and hooked his legs around the cable securely before reaching up and repeating the not-as-arduous-as-expected action. The cable was not as thick as he would have prefered, but there wasn’t just the one; rather, there was a row of the taut metal cords, which made it difficult to grasp properly with his hands, but quite effortless to twine his legs around, ease off with his hands, and rest in place for a moment, especially because the cables did not swing about beneath him. Beside some slight reverberations, it was more similar to climbing a pole than to free climbing a rope, which again, simplified his task greatly. And thankfully, the cables were strung up the dead center of the shaft so it had only been a short way from the ledge. 

He pulled himself up a few feet, figuring out what technique would work best. 

“Seriously, Barton, I’m already planning a route out through more ventilation-”

“Tony, stop,” he said, wrapping his leg around a set of the cables, hooking it behind his knee, and finding himself in a very stable place all things considered, enough so that he let go with both hands and took his time fixing the mangled cloth around his hands and wrists. The climb didn’t require all that much exertion, but that didn’t mean it was comfortable. If it was possible to get metal splinters from these cables, he’d probably have them. “Just stop.”

When Tony paused for breath, it was Steve who cut in. “If you want to take a minute to check out the stairs, we have time-”

“Guys, seriously, calm the fuck down. I already jumped. And I’m like a floor up already. I said I’ve got this.” There was a collective intake of breath and a long pause after that. Oh man, he probably just gave Captain America an aneurism. “Um, guys?”

“Well…” It was Sam who spoke up next. “I guess keep going then…”

“Are you guys mad at me? Seriously?” Clint asked, incredulous and a little pissed off. “You have no right to be mad at me. Up the elevator shaft was the original plan anyway, we didn’t have time to figure something else out, and I said- I told you- I can do this. At least take my word for it- Jesus, don’t pretend to know my limits better than I do. Fuck you guys, seriously it isn’t even that hard.”

“Alright,” Steve relented, “alright. Just be careful-”

“And stop and take a break if you need to. We have time-” Tony finished.

Clint rolled his eyes as hard as he could. “Thanks mom,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “Fucking hell, if you guys saw what I used to do as a kid from this height on cables you’d flip your ever-loving shit…” 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

“You were all ordered in no uncertain terms to stay clear of this matter.”

“I’m aware,” Natasha said nonchalantly. 

“And yet, the Avengers are pursuing AIM. Still. Correct?”

And that was tricky. There wasn’t really any denying it if she wanted to maintain the story and facade she was building, but at the same time, even though she was sure he had already decided to believe that the Avengers were going after AIM, she didn’t want to confirm this to one of the top brass of Command inside of SHIELD. Still, denying it would only serve to cast doubt on herself.

“They don’t seem to like the idea of a bunch of Nazi-sympathising evil scientists running about with a bio weapon capable of mass destruction.”

He frowned at that, suddenly not looking pleased. “Still, that is their intention, is it not? To stop the construction of this weapon? And they sought their Quinjet, which was taken by AIM, in order to find another lead to pursue?”

Natasha fought the urge to roll her eyes and say something along the lines of ‘no shit, Sherlock’. Instead, she exhaled slowly, and settled for “I think they also just want their jet back.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

“You know, this is all very Mission Impossible,” Tony rattled on. 

At this point, Clint was over halfway there, he was feeling the burn more than he would’ve liked to, and he had only so much lung capacity for useless banter. 

“Those are those spy movies starring that scientology guy, right?” Steve asked. He had been doing his due diligence, catching up on all areas of media and pop culture. 

“Tom Cruise- yes- and I can’t tell you how happy it makes me that you categorized him as ‘that scientology guy’, of all things,” Tony said, sounding genuinely thrilled. 

“Those movies are the worst,” Clint said, the exertion audible in his voice. He stopped, secured his position, and shook out both arms one at a time, taking a few deep breathes. “Nothing is realistic, and if Cruise’s character was real, he’d be dead or fired or both given how often something goes wrong in his assignments that threatens the whole damn world.”

“Well I don’t think the goal is accuracy,” Tony resumed speaking. “It’s all about capitalizing off entertainment.”

Clint heard Steve make a disapproving noise over the comms. “I don’t think they meet either of those goals.”

“No little kid should want to do this. Those movies romanticize the shit out of a bloody and terrifying job that more often than not kills you before you can even think about retiring,” Clint said, sufficiently recovering and continuing his ascent.

“Hm, fair enough,” Tony acknowledged. 

“Out of curiosity though, which movie were you thinking?” Sam asked. “Or do you just mean in general?”

“Uh, mostly in general it seems very Mission impossible,” Tony answered, “But if I had to pick one, maybe the first? It’s a classic, plus if I recall correctly there’s a similar elevator scene.”

Clint snorted audibly in disbelief. “Are you kidding me? You have got to be fucking kidding me. You do know that the guy gets killed when the elevator starts moving again? Like, the crushed against the ceiling sort of killed?” 

“Oh, right.”

Clint started climbing again maybe a little faster, and couldn’t help but glance down into the darkness toward the elevator far below. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sitwell leaned on his elbows on the armrests of his chair, eyeing her. He might have been about to say something, except he was interrupted by the phone on his desk ringing. The sound was unexpected and jarring in the quiet atmosphere, causing Natasha to flinch. She tried to cover the involuntary jerky movement by shifting in her seat, uncrossing her leg and crossing the other one in its place.

He picked up the phone and held it to his ear, eyes shifting down to a spot on his desk. He stilled, listening to whatever was being said. Natasha sat back and watched, an uneasy feeling settling in her stomach. There was little else she could do.

“Yes, Sir… That’s correct.” He swiveled in his chair, angling away from her. “She is… That is a distinct possibility, however I would consider it further- Yes, Sir, of course… That aspect is, less clear… It has? And the result?... I see.” A shadow fell over Sitwell’s face for a fragment of a second. “I understand. That is perhaps not the most desirable option, though I don’t see another reasonable course of action… Of course, Sir. I will inform Agent Romanoff.” He looked back to her and hung up the phone.

“Our agents have recovered the Avengers’ Quinjet. It will be returned to the tower in due time. Please convey that message to them. We’re done here.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

It should have been obvious how dark- basically pitch black- the elevator shaft would be, but Clint honestly just sort of overlooked it. Fine, the climb up twenty-two stories wasn’t exactly a walk in the park, and it was only made less fun by the dark enveloping him (Clint, whose hearing was already shit, wasn’t too big a fan of having his vision compromised also). And what he really didn’t need was three annoying voices in his ear telling him all of this.

Even counting all of this, the real struggle came when Clint finally reached the top floor, the final set of closed elevator doors which would open into the penthouse offices. But then Clint realized he would have to force the doors open, and he recalled just how difficult that had been from the outside, but now he was inside the elevator shaft, and had a three inch shelf and some steel cables to work with. 

Quite frankly he thought he was fucked.

He must have said as much out loud, because suddenly the nice quiet he had grown accustomed to, in which he could only hear his own steady breathing, was interrupted again by those concerned, rather troubled voices in his ear. Losing patience, he’d asked them to kindly shut up while he dealt with this. He’d asked Tony if he could get it open somehow, which was a negative (something about throwing a big flashing beacon in front of security, which wasn’t great but Clint could’ve dealt with it, and then something else about the penthouse offices being yet another isolated grid that Tony didn’t have access to), and there was nothing Steve or Sam could do about. He was on his own.

In frustration, Clint turned off his comm. (He did have the foresight to tell them he was turning it off, even though they objected, or else they would assume the worst.) He needed a bit of silence and concentration, and he hated feeling like they were all watching him. He also wasn’t interested in the others hearing his potential yet likely embarrassing fall to his death, if it came to that. (He’d like to say he would look death in the eyes stoically and take it, but nah, he’d be making some noise.) He twisted around and managed to pull the blade from his ankle strap again, holding it between his teeth to free both hands while bracing himself to do what he needed to next.

That was how, with a great deal of core strength and acrobatics, Clint found himself leaning out over the three-and-a-bit foot gap at a lethal height with both legs hooked securely through and around the cables, which hurt a bit but held, while jamming his six-inch knife blade (one of his favorites, which was unfortunate) between the doors. He was depending on his weight to be enough leverage from this angle to pry them open.

It… wasn’t easy. Or graceful. But no one saw it, or heard it, so his pride could live with that. 

After twisting and using the knife like a crowbar- not its intended use, and for good reasons, given it fucked the blade up six ways from Sunday- he managed to get his arms through. At that point, he abandoned the cables altogether, and with an ungainly amount of flopping about and scrabbling for purchase he finally got his feet on the ledge. He didn’t care about breaking the resistance so they stayed open; he just needed to squeeze through.

When he finally extricated himself from this mess, the doors sliding shut behind him, he flopped to the floor and let his limbs go limp, focusing on just breathing for a minute. There on the top floor, which was occupied entirely by the CEO and executives’ offices, he at least had all of the time and privacy he needed. The bosses didn’t much care for cameras and the like to be watching them, so none were installed. It made sense to be paranoid, given the shady and totally illegal nature of Blackbriar’s dealings.

When his lungs stopped burning, he reached up to turn his comms back on. He re-entered the conversation in the middle of what seemed like everyone talking and no one listening. Stark was apparently trying to talk Rogers down from something, and Wilson was caught in between.

“Okay, I’m back.” It suddenly became very quiet over the comms. “And I’m in.”

He got the usual frustrated Captain America rant about not turning his comms off, about the importance of communication, etcetera etcetera, not that he listened to half of it. He made affirmative sounds when appropriate and apologies at pauses, his focus returned to the task at hand.

As comfy as the Persian carpet running most of the length of the gleaming marble atrium- all glossy stone, gold trimmings and high arching ceiling- was, he couldn’t lay around all night. Rolling over and pushing himself upright, he moved toward the CEO’s office directly opposite the elevator, the wide hallway bracketed by other offices on either side which he passed. His target was the wall safe somewhere in the room, but first he had to make it through the door.

Which… might be a problem, he realized as he neared the very heavy, solid hardwood door with a biometric lock requiring a fingerprint securing what was probably a hefty deadbolt. There wasn’t a single window or plate of glass anywhere to be seen, either. Damn.

Well, biometric locks were a bitch, but most people didn’t actually wipe them off after use so if he could pull the print then he… nope. He had pulled the penlight from his pocket to check for a residue print, but it had been thoroughly wiped down. Well, they were a private security firm, officially at least, so it made sense they followed through with it. 

Fury’s file had came with the safe combination, thankfully, but not even a hint about this. “Fellas, we might have a little bit of a problem.”

“Yeah, something like that,” Steve responded quickly. “Black Suburban, tinted windows just pulled up outside.”

“Wait, what?”

“Hold on, looks like someone- a woman- is getting out of the back, and… the driver’s pulling away. She’s headed inside,” Same continued.

“Uh, describe the woman?” Clint asked.

“Thin, dark hair pulled back, maybe 5’8”, suit skirt, looks like 30’s or 40’s but it’s hard to tell from here in the dark,” Sam filled him in.

“Well, shit.” Clint took a breath, forcing the rising panic down in his chest. 

“Is that her?” Tony asked. “Like, her?”

Blackbriar’s CEO and number one baddie was Ms. Jacqueline Bennett, a severe looking, serious woman that gave the description ‘as cold as ice’ a whole new meaning. She ran the company with an iron fist and had earned a vicious reputation for ordering her enemies and those who failed or betrayed her to be forcibly vanished in ways that involved a lot of screaming and a vat full of lye for dissolving the body in the end. She was ruthless, and evil, but also methodical, efficient, good at rewarding a job well done, and no stranger to compromise, all of which made her a brilliant CEO and criminal mastermind. 

Most of this Clint knew second or third hand, but he had met the woman exactly twice. It had been quite a first impression both ways. The first time had been when he was new to the organization, freshly undercover as he was, as she sized him up or something. It was really just a show of power and a deterrence to troublemaking. The second time had been a good while later, after Clint had already made a name for himself. 

She had asked him to kill someone.

“Fit’s the description, and I don’t know who else would get chauffeured to the building at 1:00 in the morning.” Clint pressed at his temples, thinking. “She staying inside?”

“Yes. You gotta hurry up and get out of there, man.” Sam kept his cool, but his tone was still tinged with a bit of anxiety.

“Stark, got eyes on her?” Clint asked.

“Hold on, hold on,” there was the sound of typing. “Yeah, I see her. She’s crossing the lobby, headed toward security.”

“Did you trip something?” Steve asked.

“No, I didn’t,” Clint was a little defensive. “And if I had there would have been a way bigger, way deadlier response. But just an FYI this makes two problems now.”

“What do you mean?” Tony asked. “She’s talking with the desk security guy,” he added to keep them updated.

“Office door’s got a biometric lock, needs a fingerprint. I would need more than a few minutes to hack it, and that’s time I don’t have now.” With only the tiny field kit that Clint had brought tucked in the back of his belt, he’d be lucky if it was just a few minutes to sufficiently mangle the innards of the lock the right way to get it to open, and then put it back together.

“Hmm, ironic that having that fingerprint in the building now actually makes it worse,” Tony mused.

“Dude, not helping,” Sam cut in.

“Right, sorry. If it helps though, Ms. CEO seems to be having an extended chat with Desk Guy. Looks like he’s running off, probably to go get someone. She’s waiting,” Tony clarified.

“Alright, Barton,” Steve called, putting the conversation back on track. “Can you make it through that door somehow, even if we do have to abandon our original ‘leave no trace’ approach?”

He scoured the scene thoroughly for the first time, thanking the powers that be when he spied a janitorial cart- the type decked out with bucket and mop and all kinds of fun chemicals and cleaners- tucked away in the corner near the elevator, probably left by late night staff or set out for early morning people. He jogged over to it, mentally cataloging it’s contents and labelling the useful and the nonuseful. He crouched to riffle through the bottom shelf, noting the bleach and ammonia and other chemicals more ideal for weaponizing in the back of his mind, but pushed them aside. 

Then he found- well- that could do the trick. “Yeah, that I can do,” he affirmed.

Tony interrupted, updating them with “Desk Guy is back and they’re done chatting, and she’s on her way to the elevator.

“You think it’s worth the risk?” Steve resumed.

“Yes, I do. I can make a mess, stage a more obvious break-in.” When stealing something specific, it was best to leave no trace or to go all out. Either way, it took much longer to figure out what exactly was taken, and who would have been motivated to take it. “Should keep us in the clear.”

“Stark, any way you can stall that elevator?”

“Well,” he said, tapping away and double checking, “actually, yes. Once the elevator is running again it’s mine. You want me to shut it down a few floors up?”

“No, that’ll draw security and other personnel out of the woodwork. Can you slow it down?” Steve asked.

“I can make it run half speed, or,” he paused, thinking. “I can stop it at every floor, give you a like five minutes, tops. It would look like a simple malfunction to the systems.”

“Go with that, then.”

“On it.”

“Barton, would that give you enough time?”

He considered it for all of ten seconds, weighing the factors and possibilities he might run into even if he got through the front door. “Yes,” he answered confidently. “I can do that.”

“Do what you need to.”

Clint grabbed the aerosol cylinder of compressed air- the type with the narrow tube nozzle used for cleaning keyboards. He ran back across the atrium to the lock. Turning the cylinder upside down, he made sure to keep his hands clear and sprayed down the lock where it met the wooden frame, nearest the deadbolt. By inverting the compressed canister full of freon the air became exceedingly cold. Cold enough to effectively freeze the lock and decrease the metal’s flexibility. That made it weak, and then it was only a matter of brute force. Clint counted to thirty in his head.

He stepped back a few paces, and then starting forward, he kicked the lock, putting all of his weight behind the blow. There was a cringeworthy metallic creaking, cracking sound, but it held. Clint did it again. 

“Four minutes,” Tony counted down. “She’s pissed, but sticking with it.”

He tried one more time. And this time, there was a loud, awful snap, and the door swung open, Clint nearly falling in after it. “I’m in.” 

He spared the lock a quick glance, noting the relatively clean break with little obvious damage to the wood or external lock. Satisfied, he turned to throw the canister back into the janitor’s cart. He was inside the office and closing the door before he could see it land exactly where he wanted it.

The office was sparse, modern and minimalist with solid neutral tone colors and sleek black metal furnishings, none of which was what he had expected based on the dark wood and marble and gold outside the elevator. Clint went right for the paintings hanging on the far wall. The wall behind the portrait of the founder- a rather robber baron-esque looking old dude with well manicured silver facial hair- was clean, but behind door number two, bingo. 

The painting quite frankly just looked like a mess to Clint, some sort of modern abstract thing, but then his eye caught a signature at the bottom, and fuck art wasn’t his thing but he recognized Pollock and shit he was probably holding millions of dollars worth of a mess on canvas in his hands. He set it down gingerly. 

“Found the safe… Hmm, a Hollon TL-15 model. Glad I don’t have to crack this baby. I would not enjoy hauling a diamond industrial drill or a thermal lance up here.”

“You’ve got like three minutes before you need to be gone, Clint,” Tony reminded him, and so Clint pushed everything else aside. 

He didn’t know why he had all these other voices clamouring around in his head, why he had difficulty zoning everything else out, but it was probably for the same reason he felt the constant need to look over his shoulder every other minute, and to check and recheck his aids again and again to make sure they were securely in place and he wouldn’t miss something. He was anxious and jittery beyond simple alertness. He was used to Natasha being there, being another set of eyes and ears and capable hands. Hell, it was like he was missing his right hand, and overcompensating something awful. He just wanted to hurry up and get it done, and then get out.

Clint punched in the nine digit combination he had taken care to memorize beforehand, waiting for the green light to flash before turning the handle and opening the safe. Inside was a neat stack of red folders, each about a half centimeter thick filled with assorted papers and organized alphabetically by name, organization, or company by the looks of the tabs that run up the side of the stack. There were about twenty in all.

He scanned the labels once over, then more thoroughly when he still hadn’t found what he was looking for. Swearing, he began opening each and flipping through the first few pages, thinking it was possible the labels were code or false or in some way not to be taken at face value. His heart rate picked up pace when Tony called the two minute mark. While everything he saw- the orders, the the money transfers, the activities documented, the names recorded- was very damning, none of it had anything to do with a certain Hydra affiliated Advanced Idea Mechanics evil scientist organization.

“It’s not here,” he said, a little breathless. “It’s not- not in the safe. I don’t know- it’s,” he stopped, forced himself to take a breath, to reassess, to stop the urge to race against the clock when a level head would do him better right about now.

Steve sounded more put together than Clint was feeling. “Are you sure-”

“Yes. I’ve gone through all of it. Twice. Not here.”

“Look, you have ninety seconds, time to pull the plug and make for the stairs, Clint,” Tony said, a plan which Sam voiced support for.

“Clint-” Steve started, but he cut him off.

“I’ve got time. I’m gonna check the computer,” Clint said, ignoring their calls for him to jump ship. He knew what he was doing. They had never done this before. He had this, he repeated to himself. “I only need thirty seconds to make it into the stairwell. I checked it out already. It’s not alarmed up here.” 

They protested, but he only needed a few seconds to check out the computer. Stark had said it was offline, that everything in these offices was, so really it was basically just a digital safe, right? Immediately after he turned the damn thing on however, that plan fell flat. It also happened to have a fingerprint lock and passcode, and there was no way he was hacking that. It was way out of his skillset. 

Fucking hell. This was the type of thing that happened when you don’t have or take the time to do your own weeks of research and surveillance. Someone shows up when they shouldn’, you get put on a clock you weren’t expecting, you get caught facing new obstacles you didn’t come prepared for, and then the very thing you did it all for isn’t fucking there. Awesome. He knew. He just knew Fury’s one-patch-covers-all intel was too good to be true.

“Clint, you’ve got sixty seconds until that elevator opens, and Bennett steps out on your floor, finds the lock broken,and alert security, and I really don’t think you should be there when she does unless you want to deal with her and fight your way out through their private army in the lobby,” Stark said sharply.

“I could get her to open it,” Clint thought aloud, “Or to tell me what we need. She’ll know all about it-”

“Bad idea. Very bad idea,” Wilson assured him.

“Very off script bad idea,” Stark added.”

“Barton, you gave it your best, it’s not your fault that the intel was bad-” Steve tried, very Captain America.

“Why? At first, sure, we didn’t want to leave a trace we were here, but we’ve already abandoned that-”

“Clint, it’s time to go, damnit,” Steve pleaded with him, but the frustration and agitation was bleeding through.

And he was about to. Clint was about to. Except, the last thing he wanted was to leave there empty handed. And, as bad of an idea as it probably was- which was, even by his standards, probably astronomically bad, on a completely different plane of existence of bad, that kind of bad- there was this inkling of a very simple plan forming in the back of his head. And it was persistent, developing further and in more detail and with greater plausibility when he tried to shake it.

“Aw, fuck it. Sorry guys, comms are going off again.” He winced at the sudden loud and angry objections. 

“No! Are you fucking kidding me-”

“Give me ten minutes, then you can call the cavalry and do whatever you like. But not before then, or you’ll probably get me killed,” he added to try and ensure they wouldn’t do anything before that and ruin his fresh new terrible plan.

“Clint, don’t. Just don’t,” Steve- and he was Steve, a friend, this time- tried again. “You have enough time to get out. Go now.”

“Sorry, Cap.” He sighed on an exhale, a rye smile hitching his mouth. “This is why I never went military.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The elevator opened with a muted note and the gliding of the doors, followed by footsteps across the carpet and then the rapid clicks of heels across the marble as Jacqueline Bennett, CEO of Blackbriar, made her way to the door of her office. 

She was agitated, no doubt infuriated under that cool exterior due to the unnecessarily long delay of the elevator. It was the sort of mindless agitation that resulted in a sort of tunnel vision, when odd details one may or may not typically notice suddenly become irrelevant and out of focus or simply disappear below the radar. It was the sort of tunnel vision like that which may have been partly to blame for a normally vigilant, whip smart woman failing to realize the normally functioning lock on her office door was broken until she tried to open it, or failing to notice there was a man clinging to the shadows behind her until she felt the barrel of a gun pressed between her shoulderblades.

She froze, then after a few shallow breaths, her hands moved away from the door handle and up slowly into view in the universally recognized ‘don’t shoot’ gesture. 

“Inside,” was the only command he gave, voice low and steady. He didn’t move, leaving her to swing the door open herself and to step slowly and cautiously inside, wisely not turning around and keeping her hands where they were. She didn’t speak, but Clint saw her look around her now- very recently- wrecked office. He had used his precious seconds to spill open files out of the safe, still hanging open in the wall. He had pried open desk drawers and cabinets, locked or unlocked, spilling their contents across the floor. The lamp on the desk was the only source of light in the room, casting shadows that were a touch too dramatic, Clint figured.

He nudged the door closed with his heel, allowing it to audibly click shut. “Sit.” 

She stepped over spilled papers and files toward her desk, moving around it to slowly sink into the chair. Her hands migrated from her side to her lap, beneath the edge of the desk and out of his line of sight. She had self-preservation instincts, he would give her that, but this one was a little obvious. 

“It’s disabled,” he said, regarding the panic button on the underside of her desk, “and where do you think I found this?” His tone was unexpectedly conversational this time as he dropped into the armchair across from her with an air of carelessness, legs crossed, giving the handgun that had been strapped to the underside of the desk a little wave to draw her eyes up to it. The word for his posture was almost ‘lounging’. Even exuding confidence and ease as he did, he never once sacrificed the look that suggested deadliness in order to do so.

She looked quite collected for her circumstances, which did her credit. A moment of tense silence passed between them, and as he didn’t exactly seem to be hiding his face, her gaze slowly made it’s way up from the gun she had been focusing on like a deer in the headlights, studying him. And there it was, the flash of recognition he was expecting; not the awe-inspired superhero worship type of recognition either, but the horrified, finding yourself face to face with a ghost from the past that may very well kill you type. She did very well at not showing it though. One moment he saw it, but then it was gone, and Bennett was straightening up again, seeking her customary dignity and control.

He cocked his head to the side as he eyed her in return. “Recognize me?” 

He saw her jaw tighten marginally before she nodded tersely. “Cross.”

His old friend, the alias he’d hoped was behind him. Still, it was in moments like these that he was glad there were so little pictures of any decent quality of him as an Avenger.

“Hello, Jackie,” he grinned, laying the gun down on his thigh, his hand still resting heavily on it and finger on the trigger.

There was another long pause, which Clint let simmer.

“I thought you were dead.”

He raised an eyebrow, amusement playing out across his face. “Retired,” he parried.

She considered that for a moment. “I’d heard that...”

A small smile curled his lips. “But?”

“People like you don’t retire,” she finished. Her hands returned to rest flat on top of the desk.

Too true. “Well,” he drawled out, “no dead. Clearly.”

“And clearly,” she returned, matching his easy tone, “not retired.”

“Touché,” he nodded. “But luckily for you, I’m retired from that business.”

It was her turn to raise one perfectly manicured brow. “So you’re not going to kill me?” she asked, sounding unconcerned regardless.

“No.”

She nodded, and Clint detected the tension in her shoulders melt a little. “Then you better not have damaged my fucking painting.”

He laughed, talking with his hand, gun included, a little too much for her to be comfortable when he responded. “See, now that’s funny, but no, no,” he assured her, “that’s not what I came for.”

“You never were one for collateral damage,” she noted. “Precise, efficient… all of which makes this-” she indicated to the state her office was in “-look like you’re losing your touch. Did I interrupt something?” she asked, a smug smile turning her mouth up.

The faux amusement fell from his face, mouth a hard line and eyes going cold and blank, his stare piercing. Aaron Cross didn’t take kindly to insulting his professional capabilities in that way. He’d thrown a man through a window pane for less. “Let’s remember who’s holding the gun here,” he said cooly. “The mess was for your benefit, dear-” a flicker of annoyance at the term flashed in her eyes (she had probably had men thrown out windows for less)- “and as for your arrival, well, it’s rather convenient, really. See, I could do with a favor.”

She was really pushing the bounds of Cross’s chivalry with the look she gave him. “You break into my office, make a mess of it, hold me at gunpoint, and now you want a favor?” She looked surprised and condescending in a way he wasn’t sure anyone but she could master. “When you’ve already said you won’t kill me? Everyone knows you’re a man of your word, Cross. So, explain to me why I’m going to do anything for you.”

He shifted to plant both feet on the floor, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees. The gun was now leveled at her chest, and he slid the safety off. Any hint, however obviously fake, of the friendly and conversational air he had maintained, he dropped. His eyes went dark, emotionless, looking in every sense of the words deadly serious.

“Don’t push your luck,” he warned, emphasizing each word with care, but he had no need to raise his voice or threatened with any specifics. She understood. She hadn’t forgotten who, and what, she knew him to be.

Christ, since when was a gun in someone’s face not enough?

“What do you want?” she asked, voice low, placating.

“I’m not here for you, or your business,” he began to explain what she already knew. “Either of your businesses. Nor am I interested in involving the appropriate authorities. But,” he paused, and she tuned in at the word ‘authorities’, “I will, if you don’t do me that little favor.”

She was too smart to bother questioning how he could possibly do damage to her or Blackbriar by reaching out to law enforcement or the feds, especially not when he . No, she knew blackmail when she was threatened with it. “What do you have…”

“He pointed with the gun over his shoulder at the safe hanging empty and open in the wall. Pictures. Of all of that.” He pulled his cellphone from his pocket with his unoccupied hand. “Already sent to a friend.”

She nodded, eyes flicking between the gun, the files on the floor, and his phone in hand. “And this friend will send them to the FBI if you don’t leave here with what you want.”

He smile wickedly, inclining his head to her. “And that’s why you’re the boss.”

She breathed in deeply, exhaling slowly. “So that brings us back to what it is you want.”

“That is the question, isn’t it. It’s really quite simple. I want AIM. Everything you know. All of Blackbriar’s business with them, legitimate and under the table.” He paused, sizing up her reaction to his demands. “And I’m gonna need that in the next…” he glanced down at his watch, “five minutes. Or else we’re both gonna find ourselves in a spot of trouble.”

This wasn’t actually so simple of a thing. No doubt it was quite a lot of information he was asking for, and then of course there was her multifaceted concern for what he would do with it. AIM surely sent a lot of business- a lot of money- her way, which would also tie them together. So if Clint- Cross- damaged AIM, that’s hurting business, and if the authorities began investigating AIM, that’s putting companies like Blackbriar which were associated in the line of fire. And even then, there was still the fact that she could hardly trust the man she thought was sitting across from her to not use the information he had stolen and blackmailed her with. 

“Why AIM?” she asked, trying to ascertain his intentions.

“Jackie,” he said, shaking his head at her, “I don’t kiss and tell.”

“What will you do with it, if I give it to you?” she persisted, unperturbed by the not entirely amused look he shot her.

He frowned. “Honey, I just do what I’m paid to.”

She blinked across the desk at him. “And here I thought you were retired.”

Regardless of her concerns, she didn’t have much of a choice in that moment. She could figure the rest out later- distance herself and Blackbriar from AIM, lock it down, be exceptionally cautious, etcetera.The exceptionally talented killer with the gun and the blackmail took first priority. 

“Four minutes and…” he glanced at his wrist again, “ten seconds. Please and thank you.”

Then she was moving, typing in the password and swiping her thumb across the reader. “I’ll give you what you want,” she assured him. “But then how do I know you leave my business out of it?”

“Because,” he said, leaning in once more, “that would piss off quite a lot of people, now wouldn’t it? And I really don’t need that. And you said it yourself: I’m a man of my word.”

A minute later, Clint was being handed a flash drive he was assured contained all of the documents he wanted. 

“No get out of my office.”

He gave her his best smile. “Gladly. And... your guys in the lobby?”

“Won’t bother you.”

“Lovely. Good seeing you, Jackie,” he said by way of farewell as he hopped up and headed for the door. He stopped at the door though, looking back to her. “One more thing…”

She frowned, hands on hips as she was standing now. “What,” she snapped, having very little patience for this anymore.

“You know, it would be better for everyone if I was never here.” She gave him that look again, like he was stupid, and indicated with both hands to the mess her office was in, and then to the shattered lock on the door. “Well hell, yeah someone was here. But it wasn’t me, now was it?”

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “No. It wasn’t. Aaron Cross is retired.”

He grinned at her again, nodding his head to her in thanks one more time before leaving. Swinging the door shut behind him as he made for the elevator.

Clint was long gone by time Jacqueline Bennett fished out her phone from the purse she had dropped on the floor to alert security to let him pass without interference, as she promised. 

“Aaron Cross is retired,” she sighed again to herself as she sat down, drumming her fingers on the edge of her desk. “Or dead.”

She too considered herself a person of her word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I FOUND THE KEY TO FANFICTION'S GREATEST MYSTERY:
> 
> Do nothing = I see the hits go up but the kudos and comments don't change and I cry a bit  
> Leave kudos = I smile a little to myself, nice  
> Leave comment = I remember there is a human being that enjoys this and is waiting for me to update so I feel A) very happy, and B) actually motivated to keep writing. I probably will recognize your username if you've commented before and will if you do it again and I love you.


	13. unstable footing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kinda shorter- sorry it took longer than I thought it would. I hit a wall, but then I sat down at like midnight with some coffee and plugged on through like 5 AM and hey, here it is. I don't know for certain yet, but there will only be about 2 or 3 chapters left.
> 
> Y'all can follow me on tumblr under flightonbrokenwings. Feel free to hit me up there about anything honestly- yell at me to update, send me prompts or your headcannons, we can chat about favorite ships, whatevs.
> 
> Shoutout to AO3 user Kadaiana for their essay of a comment that made my day.

Tony emerged from the undercarriage of the Quinjet after about an hour of banging around and calling out tools and materials for Dummy the robotic butler turned mechanic to fetch, intermingled with a lot of swearing. His hands and forearms were streaked with the same grease and oils that ruined his shirt and were smeared across his forehead. Tossing a blackened and twisted- what appeared to be half melted- plate of metal to the ground with a loud clang, he marched to the back of the hangar where Steve was sitting. His offers to help having been rejected, Steve found himself with little to do other than to watch the arduous, if amusing, process of assessing the damage, “amputating” in Tony’s words the worst of it, “fixing” it by tearing it apart further, and patching and reassembling the Quinjet.

It was either do that, or sit and think and worry. If he was being honest, Steve did a little of both anyway.

“It’s a pain in the ass, but all things considered I was expecting a lot worse,” Tony reported, snatching a towel from Dummy’s offering pincher-hand and trying to scrub the dark stains from his hands. “They fucked up the command console and fried the wiring when they blasted the primary positioning system to hell, and then of course there’s the engines’ mangled auto safety system from Hawkeye’s Maverick stunt, but I can finish repairs and have all systems up and running by the end of today, assuming I find no other surprises. So, fingers crossed.”

Steve nodded, eyes fixed on the bright and clear midday sky outside the open hangar doors. It had stopped snowing but the temperatures continued to hover around freezing, not of course that they felt it even inside the open hangar with Jarvis on climate control duty- something to do with thermal shielding, or whatever.

Steve was fairly pleased with the jet’s diagnosis; he had expected it to take longer, not that he had much of an understanding of what ‘it’ would be. “You sure you don’t want help with that?”

“Nope, I’ve got it all under control,” Tony assured as he waved him off, more so giving off an air of confident and possessive-of-his-toys bored billionaire genius than diligent and self-sacrificing teammate, but really Steve wasn’t so sure about that. With all the master assassins and spies with drama problems running about, Steve was getting pretty good at the whole seeing through hastily constructed outward emotional facades thing.

tony tossed the now filthy cloth back at Dummy, giving up on his attempts to wipe the grime and grease away. It was only going to get worse by the time he was done. “It’s hard to keep a monologue running when someone else is there to think I’m talking to them, anyway.”

“Um, what?”

“No matter. I’m just crossing things off the list at this point, really.” He waved Steve off absentmindedly with a flick of his wrist again. “If I need any heavy lifting done I’ll send for you.”

Steve rolled his eyes. He would have responded to the ‘ha ha only good for heavy lifting’ jab with something more elegant, but it would have just been wasted. He could see Tony’s attention already drifting away, the gears turning in his head as he shifted to look back to their recently recovered vehicle. A couple of SHIELD agents had delivered it early that morning without more than a few words exchanged between them. It was played off as very normal, like signing for a UPS delivery or something, though it felt anything but.

It had been two days since Natasha’s trip to D.C. It was two days since they had left the Blackbriar building in the rearview mirror. Clint had picked her up from the airport the next morning and when everyone was in one place again, Steve called a conference. Natasha had filled them in on the more important aspects of her trip to D.C., which was enlightening to say the least. Steve also shared what they knew had transpired the night before on their end, which wasn’t the whole story, but enough of it.

After Clint had gone nearly nine minutes into his requested and _barely_ granted- and for the record, granted with great hesitation and resistance- ten minute grace period of radio silence, they were seconds away from doing something drastic when they saw the fucker stroll right out of the front doors of the lobby like he _hadn’t_ broken into the place and like there _wasn’t_ a massive, thoroughly armed security presence right behind him. He walked out, glanced behind him once, disassembled and discarded the pieces of a handgun- which he hadn’t gone in with- right there in the street, and walked a few blocks away to disappear from sight before turning his comm on and telling them to pick him up.

He’d handed over the flash drive. His only response to concerned questioning by multiple parties was to promise that they were good, that he’d covered his bases, and that they’d have no further trouble with Blackbriar, that the important thing was they would never know SHIELD or the Avengers were involved, and then he’d gone mostly quiet to brood over whatever had transpired in those last minutes. Steve hadn’t wanted to push it then and there in the car, so he took note of his questions and observations for a later date. All of them mostly just wanted to get the hell out of there.

Clint still wasn’t his usual obnoxious self when they’d conferenced together the morning they got back from the airport. It had surprised him when Clint had volunteered to go and get her, seeing as he’d been uncharacteristically reserved (when he was even present) since those elusive nine minutes. However it had surprised Steve more when Natasha didn’t seem to have any questions about what had happened at the Blackbriar building that Steve or anyone else couldn’t answer. But then, Natasha Romanoff simply existed in a perpetual state of seeming to know things that no one else did.

Steve had assumed that, if anyone would know, or if Clint spoke to anyone, even despite their recent apparent falling out (which was still a mystery to everyone, probably to Clint and Natasha themselves first and foremost), it would have been to her on that car ride back from LaGuardia.

In the two days between then and now, the tower had gone still and silent again, but not for lack of a plan of action. Rather, there was plenty to do. It just required time.

Time that they had less and less of as the clock on the estimated amount of time it would take for AIM to finish assembling the dispersal element of the bioweapon ticked down.

Clint and Natasha had been working silently, secluding themselves in the spacious conference room below the armory typically used for mission planning and debrief- the one with secure lockdown protocols- sorting and organizing the intel on the flash drive. There was a lot of it. And they were best suited for the job apparently, not only for the fact that it was an aspect of what they did for a living, but also due to something about ‘a tangled mess of classified intelligence’ and everyone else lacking the appropriate security clearances.

As for the second reason, it felt more like a reaching attempt to exclude everyone else from their little rendezvous than an actual attempt to play by the rules, given the horrors they had each subjected the rule book to thus far.

They only made appearances sparingly for food, coffee, and sleep. But then even the coffee runs stopped when one of the machine mysteriously vanished from the kitchen, having migrated down to the workshop with them, and they had damn near begun to take up residency.

According to Jarvis, that’s where the two were currently, since 6 AM that morning. (If that didn’t speak to the fact that no one had been sleeping very well in the past week, Steve didn’t know what did.)

However, they hadn’t quite escalated to locking themselves in, and by default locking everyone else out, so no one quite felt an intervention was necessary yet.

Tony had decided to not waste any time. He’d been working on the Quinjet since noon. He was puttering about a blue-tinged hologram of the 3-dimensional schematics of the jet, intermittently talking either to himself or to Dummy, who followed like the dutiful robot he was. Steve watched him for a moment before pulling himself to his feet and meandering over, hands in pockets.

“Tony,” he called to get his attention when Steve arrived to stand behind him. The other man either wasn’t paying attention or was hoping Steve would give up and go away, as he was occasionally inclined to hope whenever he was elbows deep in a new project. “Tony,” he tried again, this time more insistent.

Tony made a half-way acknowledging sound in response, hands moving as he adjusted and zoomed in on the hologram, highlighting some sections in red.

“And what about the other thing that we talked about?” Steve couldn’t help but lower his voice regarding the more sensitive topic.

“What?” Tony glanced at Steve momentarily before turning back to his work.

“Tony.” His tone was stern and unmistakable this time, and Stark finally turned his whole body around, hands on hips as he waited expectantly. “ _That_ , other thing.” Steve jerked his head sharply toward the jet over his shoulder.

A flash of realization crossed Tony’s face, eyebrows going up and a silent ‘oh’ forming on his lips before he nodded briskly. He motioned for Steve to follow as he started for the elevator doors which opened directly into the hangar. “Not here.”

The doors clicked closed behind Steve and they went down the necessary floors to emerge into the common space, which was unoccupied. It was almost odd, seeing the space empty. In the past months- the past half a year, really- the tower had become less of a temporary assembly place for occasions of alien invasions or unfriendlies attempting world domination through intradimensional rifts, and more of (and Steve was loathe to say it, for how cliche and corny it sounded) an actual home. Everyone on the team- and it felt like some of their closest friends and colleagues as well- had formally and finally moved in. They stayed together, ate together, trained together, had poker night and movie night which turned into drinks and war stories all around together, and so on. And when the call came in, they fought together as well.

Rather than going their own separate ways after New York and getting as far away as possible from the thing which originally gathered them there, they each found themselves drawn back to this place. To this tower. It was Avengers Tower now, after all.

Steve had a feeling the name would stick, no matter how many times Barton or anyone else would roll their eyes and insist “Stark Tower. Stark. He’s the only asshole brazen enough to put his name on it.”

“So,” Tony started, hopping up onto a stool. Steve’s attention snapped back to the question at hand. “I didn’t find anything physical- no bugs, no foreign gps or transmitters- but that was only a cursory first inspection, and I won’t know anything about alterations or bypasses to the actual console or trojan uploads in the systems until I have everything up at 100% and Jarvis can run a complete internal scan for any new installations or transmissions in or out.”

Steve mulled that over as he measured the proper amount of coffee grounds. The poor machine seemed to be running 24/7 as of late. He broke from his task and looked over to Tony, who was slouched forward across the counter, forehead pressed to the cool marble and arms folded around his head. For as much as he complained when Clint supposedly scuffed his designer brand sneakers, he didn’t seem to have a problem with letting his dangling feet kick into the side of the counter to some rhythmless beat.

It hadn’t gone by Steve unnoticed that Tony also was running himself ragged the past week at least trying to fix everything, to resolve everyone’s problems and lift every burden, to try and find a magical solution when all he had to work with was a very corporal and obedient to the laws of physics tool belt. Steve was at least semi-confident that Tony’s single minded determination to fix the Quinjet on his own was yet another manifestation of the bleeding heart that was draining the man.

“Want one?”

Tony didn’t move or even lift his head in response but Steve detected a muffled “Make it two”. He retrieved another mug from the cabinet.

It was another moment before Steve poured the coffee and slid into a seat beside Tony, setting the other man’s mug down beside him with a look of sympathy, not that Tony saw it, given he was still facedown on the countertop. At the sound of it setting down though he did look fish about for it with a hand and slid it toward him, cradling the warm mug in both of his still-stained hands.

Steve exhaled heavily, leaning back into his seat. “I still don’t know what to think of all this.”

Tony shuffled up onto his elbows, eyes glued to the rippling surface of the dark liquid before him. “Of all what?”

“Of SHIELD,” Steve said after a moment. “SHIELD isn’t the bad guy. Fury definitely isn’t. The man’s a piece of work and a real son of a bitch, but I trust him. But lately, with all of this, I don’t know…”

“Rogers,” Tony began in a tone that lacked any trace of his usual sarcasm, mocking, or smartassery. “There’s no good or bad, no black and white, in three things: money, love, and politics. It’s just shades of grey and a bunch of noise.” He paused, shrugging his shoulders awkwardly in his position. “That noise is typically people yelling at each other, by the way.”

Steve huffed out a laugh, then sipped from the near scalding liquid gingerly. “I guess secret government organizations falls under politics then.”

Tony righted himself to drink also, a little less carefully then perhaps the temperature merited. “You’d be surprised how often the three go together.” He winced and set his mug down for the moment. “But as for SHIELD though, I get what you mean. Really. I don’t know about you, and Barton and Romanoff probably _are_ paranoid enough to make a habit out of it, but personally I’ve never been too concerned with taking precautions against SHIELD hacking us or planting listening or tracking devices in our vehicles.”

“Kinda makes me miss the good old days when you knew if a guy was your friend or not based on the uniform he wore,” Steve laughed.

“Ah yes,” Tony mused, “because who wouldn’t miss a world war. Don’t fret too much though Steve, a lot of it’s the same.” Steve gave him a trademarked look. “For example,” he began to count off his fingers,  “we’ve got Nazis… ”

Steve nodded. “One of the only reasons I miss the uniforms,” he explained. “At least then we knew who they were. Now they all blend in.” He glanced at Tony, the corner of his mouth hitched up in a smile. “What, you think it’s because they were comfortable?”

Tony shook his head, grinning. Shoulders shaking with mirth, he laughed under his breath. “No, no. I know you’re still catching up on pop culture and movies and the like, but make sure to add Inglorious Basterds to your list. You’ll love it, I promise.”

Steve gave him a sidelong look. “For some reason I think you’re enjoying the thought of me watching it more than I would enjoy watching it.”

“Now,that’s a lie, and I take offense. But we’ve gone off topic now. So, we still have Nazis,” Tony recapped, “and we still have the occasional threat of the world ending via weapons of mass destruction.”

“Mhhmm, I wasn’t really around for that part or the war.”

“Eh, probably for the best. Nasty bit of business, nuclear war,” Tony brushed it off, making Steve roll his eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone call going down in an airplane ‘for the best’ before…” Steve let the criticism hang in the air, but Tony didn’t pay it much heed.

“But you _do_ understand what I mean.”

Steve shook his head and bit the inside of his cheek, drumming his fingers on the edge of the marble counter. “Sure,” he relented. “And maybe you have a point about a lot of it being the same. I read the headlines sometimes, and I swear I’m back in the 30’s.”

“Well I know I have a point, but thank you for acknowledging it,” he said, draining his mug. “There’s a ‘but’ coming, right?”

“But it sure as hell got a lot more complicated.”

Tony sighed, rolling his neck. “Fine. But speaking of complicated-” he looked over at the digital clock on the oven “-I think it’s time someone checks in on the spy kids. They haven’t come up for breath in like six hours, and that is far too long without adult supervision. Come with?”

Steve raised an eyebrow at that, wry humor and a dash of indignation written across his face. “You need help lifting something?”

Tony slid off his stool, rolling his eyes with a heavy exhale for good measure. “They’ll have a harder time murdering me and disposing of my body if there’s a witness My motives are entirely self-preservation based, I assure you.”

“If you say so.”

“Come on old man,” Tony called, several steps ahead of him.

“I’m coming,” Steve griped. “And physiologically you’re older than me.”

“Eh, I wasn’t born before Freddie Mercury.”

“Wow, very subtle, Tony. Yes, I know who Freddie Mercury is.” Steve strode ahead of Tony, making it to the elevator first.

“Hey, hold up now,” Tony called. “Remember to knock- assassins like that sort of thing."

"I'm not the one with boundary problems, Tony."

"But if there’s a sock on the doorknob run for it.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Clint estimated that between the two of them, they had brought down a whole forest with the sheer volume of paper they had printed, gathered, stacked, scattered, pinned up, taped up, ripped down, highlighted, circled, crossed out, torn up, balled up, thrown into the overflowing recycling bin, occasionally fished back out, and repeated with the process. It was the most infuriating yet absolutely necessary orderly mess Clint had ever seen, in his life.

There was a method to their madness, however. Along one wall, Natasha had tapped up two neat rows of the disassembled sheets of paper that had once been two desktop calendars, one for the current year, nearly over as it was, and one for last year. It was marked all over in a variety of colored sharpies, highlighted in different colors of the rainbow, and some particularly busy dates were denoted by a combination of many.

Clint was manning the adjacent wall, which had huge maps of countries and continents pinned up in a sort of Frankensteined not near complete world map that had come out of some poor cartographer’s nightmare. Everything was out of proportion and plenty of it was missing altogether, dominated by the maps of North America, Mexico, and Europe. Predominantly those three served as a pincushion for hundreds of red, orange, blue, and black thumbtacks.

There was a large swath of wallspace dedicated to nothing but bank accounts, cash withdrawals, and wire transfers. And finally, the tables, much of the floor, the wall across from the calendars, and most of any and all available space, save narrow aisle walkways, were covered in and strewn with reams and reams of paper upon which everything from the flash drive was printed. They were swimming in everything AIM related that Blackbriar personnel had anything to do with.

The only other things worthy of taking up any vital space in the room were the coffee machine tucked away in a corner by the door and a military grade laptop which they could neither confirm nor deny may or may not have been tapped into secure satellite feeds.  It was necessary to plot coordinates, get locations to pin on the map, and take a closer bird’s eye look at some of the coordinates when the records were iffy and they couldn’t determine if it was the random site of an incident, a drop spot, or some type of AIM facility.

The only thing missing that would make the room a scene from a Hollywood blockbuster was red string connecting it all.

Clint and Natasha were working their way through hundreds if not what felt like thousands of incident reports, personnel deployment records, transport and resource allotment requests, and mission reports, each categorized and separated tables and sectors of the room. For everything, they skimmed enough to get a general understanding of the activity, looked for the date of said activity, and sought the pertinent coordinates.

From there, they had worked out the most efficient process possible between two people conquering an arduous, completely inefficient task.

On the calendar Natasha would take note of the date, country, and city or county which Clint determined on the laptop with the coordinates. When they had everything important plotted, Clint would then shift focus to matching the money with the activity, and Natasha would look for a pattern in the activity based on the past two years. With what they learned there, they were very often able to determine just what was at that location, and then it got its designated color of thumbtack on the map.

And then they repeated the process. Again and again a hundred times over. For two days straight. And since 6 AM that morning. Running off of basically nothing but coffee, a good bit of desperation, and the dream of someday punching that AIM guy who was so fond of explosives in the face.

But in the meantime, Clint wanted to stab his eyes out with these goddamn thumbtacks.

“I’ve got a wire transfer for fifty thousand, on the second Friday of every month it looks like, from that same shell corporate account you flagged to Blackbriar,” Clint called across the room to Natasha, who was busy writing something or other on the far side of the calendar wall. “It matches with the armored truck deliveries and protection details.”

“Start date?” she asked, capping her pen and grabbing the appropriately colored highlighter to denote a wire transfer.

“Farther back than I’m willing to find,” Clint said, eyes still locked on the sheets of numbers pinned up before him, circling the repeating transfer each time it came up for the past year. He flipped the page up to check the next pinned beneath it, seeing the same pattern. “For the past two years at least.”

Natasha made an affirmative sound and began walking the length of the wall, marking the appropriate days with a dash of pink highlighter beneath the already written words “convoy delivery- Bromont, Canada”.

Clint went back to the personnel and vehicle deployment records that had first brought that date and location to their attention. “It’s a static site, permanent personnel,” Clint commented, based on the predictable pattern, “but there’s no intel on what was delivered.”

“Based on the fact it required an armored car and armed security detail, it’s either highly sensitive or very expensive- my money’s on both,” Natasha said, stepping over a box of paper on her way to the laptop, where she plugged in the coordinates and watched the image load and zoom in on the town not far outside Montreal. There wasn’t much to see at the precise coordinates except an unassuming, large flat roofed industrial building and asphalt parking lot dotted with vehicles. At this point, Google was actually the best tool at her disposal. A quick search of the town revealed an economic and labor dependency on manufacturing and industry. The particular plant she was looking at was... “Vodexo. Chemical processing plant. Another shell corporation,” Natasha guessed aloud when she felt Clint appear at her shoulder.

“Got it. Marking that one as a lab-”

“Oh. My. God.” Tony’s voice interrupted both of their trains of thought, making Clint and Natasha turn their attentions sharply toward the entry which Stark was occupying, standing frozen in the open doorway, Steve peering in and equally gaping about the room over his shoulder.

“Don’t touch anything,” Natasha was quick to snap, eyeing Tony pointedly as he started forward deeper into the paper jungle.

Clint shot him a glare when Tony’s too curious hand fluttered over the categorized stacks of personnel reports. “If I have to reorder those reports one more time I’m gonna exit the building via window, and I’m takin’ you with me.” Clint picked his way across the room on autopilot along a route he had committed to memory, arriving at the map of North America on the far wall  to stick a red thumbtack in a spot between Montreal and the Vermont border.

He was very carefully tiptoeing around stacked boxes and rows of files of papers, down the narrow aisle in which the carpet could actually be seen to stand in the middle of the room, looking around him in equal parts confusion, amazement, and concern. “Oh dear lord,” Tony continued, “Well, you’ve done it. You’ve both finally, completely lost it. You had to go all Beautiful Mind on me, didn’t you… I mean, what the hell is this?”

“If you’re here to gawk, don’t. The door’s right there. Feel free to use it,” Natasha suggested, monotone and uncaring, not bothering to look up from the next incident report in her stack.

Clint couldn’t blame her; he felt much the same. The tedious nature of their task, the boredom and lack of sleep over everything that was happening, the seemingly never ending waves of data and numbers and reports spinning before their eyes... all of it made his head hurt. A few days ago he would have given almost anything to just get back to business as usual with Natasha, to be able to just interact without everything being awkward and awful and making him feel like throwing up.

But this was not that. This was mentally demanding, exhausting, and utterly draining. The mood between them in the now cramped room was an uncomfortably tense one, roiling with silent frustration. The only talking they did was in bits and phrases, in numbers, dates, locations, brief summaries of reports, and often expressed confusion and choice words over what exactly they were looking at.

The jumping out of the building approach to his problems was looking more and more appealing.

“We were just checking in,” Steve offered, voice light and cautious. He could sense the mood of the room, the pent up agitation primed and ready to go off, and he wasn’t that eager to strike a match under it. “Seeing if you’d like an extra pair of hands, or if you’re getting anywhere.”

“Or,” Tony started, dragging out the syllable. “If you guys need anything? Maybe, a break? A nap might be good. Or maybe some water, some snacks-”

“Coffee,” Clint interrupted, motioning with the hand not perusing through his next stack of files in the general direction of the coffee machine.

“Um, maybe we should _all_ consider cutting back on the-” He was silenced by the cold stare, a look promising violence, that Clint sent his way. Tony cleared his throat. “Right, I’ll get that for you.”

“If you do want help, or if you want to take a break, we could-”

“No. Thank you Steve, but no.” Natasha was more cordial this time, though Clint could see her exhale slowly, forcing herself to put aside bitter retorts and to be patient. “It would take far too long to explain it, and we’re almost done as it is.”

“How can you be almost done?” Tony asked, surprised and partly impressed. “There are still boxes and boxes of files here.” He poured from the pot of coffee into one of the mugs beside it. He wasn’t sure which mug was Clint’s, and the coffee was lukewarm by now, so if it were anyone _but_ the man he might actually consider fetching a clean mug or putting on a fresh pot at least. But this _was_ Clint, so considering that and how run down he looked, he would probably drink whatever Tony put in his hands.

“We’re only looking at the last two years. That stuff’s old. No point, and we’d never get through it all,” Clint explained without paying it much mind, frowning down at the incident report he was reading detailing a contracted hit on a hospital ER manager and a reporter in Oklahoma last year.

“How much longer do you think it’ll take?” Steve asked, quickly backtracking and adding, “Not that there’s any need to rush. Just an estimate. You guys are making great time.”

Natasha considered it for a moment, scanning the room to assess how many files they still needed to get through. “End of the day tomorrow.”

Clint choked on the coffee Tony had handed him a second ago, coughing.

Natasha sighed, closing her eyes and visibly counting to ten for patience. “With luck.”

Clint shook his head. “If we cut the incident reports, focus on differentiating static compounds from drop sites, and some luck, yeah, maybe. But then we still have to narrow them down.” He pulled out his phone to do a quick search of the headlines from that week in the state, and saw a few about an explosion at a car manufacturing plant, but it was lacking in details. He got a date and he got a town though, so after checking that that bank records from the time of the hit matched with a transfer- circling the shell company used to make the transfer- he stuck a black and red tack into the map.

“Two days,” Natasha corrected.

“If they’d have told me the job included this much paperwork from the get-go, I never would’ve signed on- jail woulda been preferable to this,” Clint lamented under his breath, dropping that file in a pile he’d already reviewed and moving on to a different table strewn with delivery histories.

From his periphery he saw Tony, who was nearest him, give him a weird look, but he made no comment on it. After another moment though, he asked- “What are all of these?” -staring at the maps turned pincushions.

Clint paused a moment to cast a glance over at his handiwork. “These are AIM facilities with constant personnel,” he explained, pointing to red and orange colored tacks.  “Red are labs, usually semi-legitimate companies. The orange are something else, a lab but more like a compound or a base of operations, more heavily guarded, concealed, less legitimate. Probably the ones we’re after. Blue is a drop site, temporary holding or deposit of shipments of hell knows what. And black is a contract. Murder, B and E, theft, arson, kidnapping- you name it, Blackbriar’ll do it. For a price.”

“And how will you know what’s relevant to stopping AIM from making this weapon?” Steve asked as he made his way toward the back wall, eyeing the hundreds of multicolored tacks across different countries and continents. Contemplating their next moves, his  hand wandered up to tap lightly on one of the orange tacks planted in Brazil. “We couldn’t possibly hit all of the compounds, much less the other locations as well.”

“Not if we want to finish this before we retire,” Tony commented. “Or World War III. Whichever comes first.”

“Hence the need to narrow it down. Figuring out the important ones will mostly depend on what was delivered where, and when,. But that has to wait until we actually know where everything is,” Natasha explained as she continued to go about her work. Clint could tell she was growing more impatient with the prolonged visitation and the game of twenty questions. The stiffness in her posture, the minute furrow of her brow, all spoke to it.

“If you still wanna help,” Clint offered, “can you take these boxes out with you?” He nudged a row of boxes filled with files and documents. “It’s all either old or irrelevant. And if you couldn’t tell we need the space.”

If Steve saw through his attempt to kindly kick him and Tony out, he was nice enough about it not to say as much. He looked quietly from Clint to Natasha to the boxes and back again, and he was on board with a small polite smile and a nod. “Sure. Come on Tony.” he nudged the other man’s elbow, who begrudgingly set about helping.

After a few trips in and out, Clint and Natasha had the slightly less crowded, document and data filled room to themselves and their impossible work once more.

Natasha continued to jot something down on the calendar, barely looking up to follow her pen from where her eyes were fixed on the pages she gripped just a touch too tightly for Clint to be convinced she was at ease.

“Hey Nat,” he called to her, inflection tilting up in a question, but he was ignored or dismissed as irrelevant white noise. “Natasha.” This time, though he didn’t mean it to, his tone was softer, with something too close to sympathy- no, empathy- carrying across the divide between them.

She stopped, hand frozen mid-word though didn’t look up at him before she continued. “What?”

“I’m gonna take a break,” he said simply.

There were another few seconds as he watched her profile, silent and stiff. “Fine.” She reached for another page, glancing from it to the calendar and back again as she compared dates.

“Nat…”

She inhaled more deeply, and frowning, she spun on him. Tersely and not all that kindly she asked, “What, Clint? What.”

“Take a break with me.”

She half rolled her eyes, exasperated. Deciding that the undivided attention she was willing to grant him had been used up, she turned back to shuffling the documents in hand a little more violently that was necessary. “Busy.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “So am I, but we can still take a break.”

“Do that. Can’t stop you.” Natasha ceased her writing, but she kept her eyes fixed on the lines of text in her hands, going over and over them. She tried to read the thing three times over, failing to actually absorb any of it.

She bit her lip, forcing her heart down in her chest. Nothing was settling right with her. Nothing settled right ever since she had broken her own heart a little when she told him outright that it wasn’t working. To stop trying. That it would never work. Nothing settled right, leaving her with this pent up guilt and anxiety gnawing at her insides that nothing would relieve, ever since he had just accepted it that night, head ducked and shoulders braced against the blow. Hopelessness etched itself into his eyes and a numb hollowness fell into place in her chest.

And now every little thing was setting her off, making her want to punch the wall, yell or scream or do anything to let it out- to get it out of her- but she kept it in check. She kept it in check because it wasn’t fair to him.

“It isn’t about ‘stopping’ me. It’s okay to take a breather, every once in awhile,” he countered, and from the corner of her eye she watched him.

For all the world she seemed to give her undivided attention to the document in her hands but no, she was focused on him. She was always focused on him. And that was part of the problem. She saw the quirked half smile and the genuine compassion in his eyes. She _felt_ his goddamn good intentions and overflowing empathy.

And fuck him, _fuck him_ , why couldn’t he just be angry with her, be callous, give her the cold shoulder or the silent treatment or just fucking hate her guts.

“Too much to do here.”

“This stuff isn’t going anywhere,” he said, a sad smile that continued into his eyes tugging at his mouth. “Five minutes.”

“I’m fine. Take your break.”

“Tasha, you’re speaking in monosyllables.”

“I am fine, Отправляйся,” she snapped, turning on him with a dark frown, hands clenching into a fist before she could help it, the documents crumpling. She glared at him.

But he was only ever kind. She was angry, she’d hurt him, but he was only ever kind. And that pissed her off.

He was silent for a long stretch, his hands in his pockets, shoulders loose, and weight shifted off balance to one side, in every way unoffending, non hostile, not defensive and certainly not as on the offensive as she felt. It was subtle and not entirely intentional as he projected that he wasn’t the enemy here. He never was. He only wanted to help her.

“Tash…” It was quiet, barely above a whisper. “Please. Five minutes.”

She inhaled, feeling more shaky that she liked, blinking a few times. She waited until she felt a little more stable. “Okay,” was all she managed to force herself to say.

Clint stepped back into a patch of carpet recently vacated of boxes. Back against the wall, he slid down to the floor, one knee coming up loosely to his chest, the other leg stretched out in what the meager space allowed. He never took his eyes off her though, not then, and not when he patted the floor next to him, a silent beckoning.

A frustrated, strangled sound escaped from the back of her throat, but she relented and stormed across the room to him in as reckless a fashion as she dared amidst the precarious stacks of documents and files littered about the place. Her back hit the wall and she dropped down beside him, no more than a foot of space between them. Her head thumped back against the drywall, eyes closed.

A silent minute passed. She was tense still, knees pulled close to her chest almost defensively, her arms wrapped tightly around them. But he, by contrast, seemed well at ease. She didn’t know the point of this, and the doing nothing only seemed to make her anxiousness to get back to work worse. She was about to push herself back to her feet and do exactly that when he spoke.

“I came across a short report over there. Was about to get to it. Recognized the coordinates- well,” he corrected, shrugging, “mostly recognized them. Something went down somewhere near Medina- city in Saudi Arabia, you know?”

When she didn’t respond, or seem inclined to, he simply continued unperturbed. “We were there back in, what was it? ‘05? 06’? God, seems like forever ago. It was just you ‘an me back then, and Coulson too, of course,” he continued, a hint of sadness touching his voice. “I mean, it was a while ago, and so much has happened since then, but come on, you gotta remember Medina. There was that Saudi oil tycoon? With the godawful cologne- I _still_ remember that, I think it’s burned into my brain- and that massive super dangerous diamond smuggling gang SHIELD sent us after that turned out to be a bunch of old women? And there was that kid with the purple motorbike with the orange stripe and I told him that the colors clashed but he wasn’t having any of it- you know what I’m talking about,” he insisted, a small hopeful stupid smile on his face.

“I remember,” she finally acknowledged after it became clear he wouldn’t let it go. She remembered as soon as he had said the city’s name, she just didn’t feel too much like talking. He seemed to get that. He was willing to do the talking for both of them anyway.

“I was just thinking about how, of all the jobs we’ve had, that one was pretty okay. No one got hurt, no massive shootouts, no crazy conspiracies or politics, just a couple ‘a old ladies ‘an widows tryina make an- albeit, kinda illegal- living.” He sighed, leaning his head back against the wall and looking up at the ceiling tiles as that grin spread wider across his face. He laughed quietly, shaking his head. “They made a mean dish of Kabsa though.”

Natasha smiled faintly at the memory. She remembered how the two of them couldn’t possibly believe it that SHIELD analysts had misinterpreted the data so wrongly. She and Clint had checked and double checked their sources, planted listening devices and bribed the locals, spent hours and hours canvassing and surveilling, all to come to the undeniable conclusion that a charming smile and an awkward conversation about international laws over a table of traditional Saudi fare was all that was needed to close this particular case file. No guns necessary.

“And christ, when we tried to explain it to Fury,” Clint laughed harder, biting his lower lip as he tried to get his slanted grin under control to continue. “He was adamant we fucked up. Man, he yelled and swore up and down- wouldn’t hear a word of it.”

“He was about to fly down there himself,” Natasha recalled, the smile growing across her face a genuine one, and her shoulders shaking slightly from the laughter bubbling up inside her. “He was pissed.”

“And, what was it that Coulson had said? Something like, ‘Barton, I swear to god if half of that’s true, I’m about to give a sixty-something year old women your job’. And he probably would’ve too.” Clint’s humor was tinged with that same sadness again, but not enough to bring down his mood. “Just, because. You know?”

“Their operation _was_ impressive,” Natasha admitted, inclining her head out of some admittedly laughable respect. “They would’ve made fine operatives.”

“Right,” he laughed, nodding eagerly. “But I like them better as the super villain mafia type enterprise SHIELD made them out to be. Like, throw in an Al Pacino type, and there you go.”

She laughed aloud, then pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes closed tight as she choked it back down. “Or,” she broke off laughing, “their very own biker gang. Very Hell’s Belles. I can picture it.”

Clint snorted, biting his lip. He cleared his throat, grinning like a madman, but then throwing his hands together mimicking carrying a gun and doing a weird eyebrow thing to get into character, he gave his best ‘70s classic greaser movie wannabe dramatic narrator impression. “She’s one ‘a the babes who rides bikes with the boys who light hellfires. Hell’s Belles. Hip chicks, with an itch for the kinda action it takes _a lotta man_ to scratch.”

“God,” Natasha blurted out, both hands covering her mouth. “That was _terrible_ . Truly awful. For having memorized it, I’d think you could do better. _”_

“Ridiculous. That was amazing. On point.”

“No,” she insisted, shaking her head. “Terrible.”

He scoffed, but broke into another manic grin, laughing. “I’d buy them the leather jackets myself, though.”

And then they were both laughing. It didn’t even make sense, but it was _them_. It was Clint’s dreadful sense of humor and horrible taste for cringeworthy one-time cult classic movies returned to life at full vigor, and it was her half-hearted admonishment and ridicule. And it hadn’t been like that in far too long.

Eventually though, the laughter subsided into quiet grins and shaking shoulders, broken only by deep and calming exhales as they reined it in.

Natasha stretched out her legs and shifted onto one hip in order to better face him, realizing then that she didn’t know when they had gotten that close to one another. She was practically resting against his shoulder, the two of them comfortably slotted together, side by side.

Clint sighed, closing his eyes as he moved to get more comfortable against the wall. It only brought that two of them closer together. “If only it was still that easy.”

She didn’t know what to say about that exactly. She knew where he was coming from, but the simple statement masked the complexity and potential duality behind its meaning.

If only it was so easy to just be like that, together. If only their lives, their jobs, their everything, were so easy and straightforward again. Their newfound place among the Avengers and taking up residency in the tower, the current mess with AIM- the evidence and reminders of which surrounded them- the uncomfortable dealings with and memory of Blackbriar, and finally their seemingly ever shifting status and relationship with SHIELD and each other, all made for incredibly dangerous and unstable footing.

She sighed, letting her eyes fall closed. “I’m sorry you had to go there, back into that headspace,” she said, referencing his brief rendezvous with his rather forgotten alias. She hesitated, distracted by the slow, gentle rise and fall of his chest. More quietly, she continued. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

“Tasha,” he complained softly, turning his head to face her, a look that said ‘ _Really_ ’ with a good dash of sarcasm written across his face. “You did what you had to. _Somebody_ had to,” he insisted, shifting his weight onto his side and turning to brace one shoulder against the wall. They were face to face now.

She could feel his soft exhale against her collar, feel the heat radiating from him. _Too close_ , she reminded herself. _Back away_. But that thought got lost in translation into action somewhere, distracted and pained as she was by conflicting messages inside her head and deep in her belly.

“We both know I should have been there.” _For you_ , was the implied ending she left hanging in the air. “It was an dick move on my part.” Her voice had turned harder and unforgiving, directed only at herself.

He frowned, eyes soft and far too forgiving. “Tasha,” he plead with her, so quietly that only their proximity allowed her to hear it. “It wasn’t like that.”

“No,” she insisted. Rearing back, she was affronted by the gentleness there. “No, it was-”

“Nat, I- I get it, I promise.” It was as if he was about to reach for her, but then stopped himself as he pulled back as well, shifting and turning partly away as if realizing he’d grown closer than appropriate given what she’d asked of him on that night.

“No-”

“Look, you needed space. You didn’t want to be in the field with me. That’s fine-”

“It’s not fucking fine, Clint.” There was a hard edge to her tone, the anger that had clung to her heart rearing its ugly head. “You’re my _partner._ Why? Why are you like this?-” She stopped immediately when she saw the hurt and confusion in his eyes, and he began to distance himself. “No, I mean, why aren’t you pissed off?” she demanded, voice rising. She rolled up to her feet, pacing away and turning on him again “You’re supposed to be angry, goddamnit. You should be pissed off, frustrated, something!” He was scrambling to his feet now, ungainly and shocked at the outburst. “Yell, okay? Punch a wall, shoot something, give me the cold shoulder at least, throw something   _for fuck’s sake_.”

“Nat, I’m not gonna-” he faltered, looking for the words. “I’m not- I would never- don’t even- _fuck_.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “I’m not- I’m not angry with you- fucking hell, Natasha-”

“Well you should be.” She turned her back to him, arms crossed tight against her chest as she stormed a few steps away. “I-”

“Stop,” he demanded, and while it was forceful and adamant, there was nothing sharp in his tone at all. Distress, yes, but nothing the guilt wrestling with her from inside demanded. “ _Don’t_. You had every right-”

“Why do you keep blaming yourself,” she turned on him, confused and pained. “Everything bad ever, and you only blame yourself.” He opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to process. “Not everything is your fault, you idiot.”

He ducked his head self-consciously, shoving his hands into his pockets. “This is just- I mean, things don’t work out for me anyway. Never have. Just par for the course I guess.”

That just about killed her. “You’re wrong.” She shook her head, throat dry. “You’re wrong.”

The silence dragged on, one minute after another as neither of them knew what to say next. Clint slid back down to the floor, the heels of his palms pressed against his eyes. Natasha slumped against the wall, letting it take her weight. Slowly, the tension, the inflamed emotions that had been running high, the gray cloud that had been gathering over their heads, all of it just bled from the room, leaving only exhaustion in it’s wake.

Coupled with the countless mentally tedious hours of work they had put in already, and the weight of all they had left to do, it was was the type of exhaustion that not even an IV drip of caffeine could relieve. Natasha stepped toward him, letting her back fall against the wall, her head hitting with a soft thump, and sliding down to sit beside him. His head was still ducked, knees up, withdrawn. She heaved out a sigh, dropping her forehead onto his shoulder.

“Прости. I’m sorry.” It was all she could manage. It was all she knew to say. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rough translations:
> 
> Отправляйся - fuck off  
> Прости - I'm sorry


	14. make it work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much going on here, but consider this part 1 of the chapter I wanted to write. It is about my average chapter length long though, and if I didn't post this now, the wordcount would've gotten way out of control.
> 
> Part 2 is gonna be a doozy. Buckle your seat belts kiddos.

Clint was stirred from sleep he didn’t remember falling into by an on-again off-again vibration against his leg. That wasn’t to say he actually reacted, or really even completely gained consciousness. Rather, it took him a length of time he had no accurate awareness of- except the vibrating stopped for a while but then started again, and then again, and again- before he was willing to even consider opening his eyes. 

Eventually though, it occurred to him that he wasn’t all that comfortable and that he had no idea where he was or since when he’d been there. So, open his eyes he did.

What was he looking at? Which direction was gravity now? He was lying face down on something hard- the floor, he came to realize- but kinda soft- the carpet. That was the carpet. 

One forearm and hand had gone numb from how his head was cushioned on his arm, and he had an uncomfortable sort of painful feeling in his neck, no doubt from the awkward angle in which  it was twisted to the side for who knows how long. 

Of course, he felt a similar uncomfortable sort of painful feeling generally everywhere, like after a really grueling workout in which he was also the punching bag. Or like he was hit by a bus. Take your pick. But beside that, nothing  _ specifically _ hurt real badly, which honestly was 50/50 when waking up these days.

As to where he was, it took him a minute. The carpet was soft, kind of squishy, and a cream color. He registered the wall across from him, the kitchenette thing over there, the coffee table not to far away, the television there, the chairs, the… he groped around with one arm to the other side of him rather than lift himself up and look… the couch behind him, okay. Still in the tower, probably his floor, or at least he hoped it was his floor, because that’d be awkward...

He was barechested and wearing sweatpants, and he’d taken out his aids, so he must’ve somewhat planned to pass out where or when he did… The night before and the past week of events began to drift back to him. 

Ugh. Right. 

It had been three days since he and Natasha had moved a mountain of paperwork and were able to compile a list of locations. And in those three days, the team had assembled and hit more than that in the number of AIM facilities. One yesterday, two the day before, one the day before that. Tony had taken their list and had Jarvis run through some things, emerging with a series of coordinates and all the intel he could dig up on each. There was really no way of knowing w _ hich _ site on their list was  _ the _ site- AIM’s command center for this little biological weapons project of theirs- so honestly it became a mad dash to hit as many as they could before AIM could distinguish any pattern and rally an effective defense. They were also racing against SHIELD, which they were concerned would catch on or intervene or otherwise crash their little ‘save the world’ themed party in any other unusually dickish way. The goal was to cripple AIM’s operation as best they could, and when it came to dealing out the damage, they were scarily efficient. 

And yesterday, they’d gotten back to the tower in the early evening and called it a day. Thankfully. Clint remembered the kitchen table piled with a variety of takeout food, showering, throwing on some clothes, and collapsing on the couch. He hadn’t even managed to make it from the elevator to the bedroom. Of course, how he ended up on the floor was still perplexing. 

He groaned aloud as he forced himself to move, rolling over onto his back and letting his arms flop to his sides. Okay, moving was a bad idea. The living room of his floor was dark and empty and quiet (he wasn’t wearing his aids though) and regardless of being on the floor he was still an acceptable level of comfortable, so why was he conscious again? 

Right. The vibrating. It was doing it again.

It was his phone, he realize, wincing. Damnit. He hoped it wasn’t something important. He didn’t feel like dealing with anyone yelling at him. Still lacking a good deal of coordination in his extremities, he fumbled to dig it out of his pocket, only succeeding after it had gone quiet and still again. He blinked a few times to read the caller ID.

Kate. Not what he was expecting. And he had, well shit, that was a lot of missed calls. From her. And fuck, it was only a little after 7 in the morning. Wouldn’t that make it like, super early in California? That worried him. 

He sat upright possibly too quickly judging by the way his vision went black around the sides and the way he wanted to throw up a bit, and damn did it hurt. Only then did he remember that he’d managed to get thrown through a brick wall and fall off a (short- he’d like to remind everyone- only a like three story) building in the past three days. He threw out an arm and fished around the surface of the coffee table for his aids, finding one and sticking it in place before flopping down to the floor once more. 

Staring straight forward at the ceiling, his thumb hovered over the call button with a little apprehension gnawing at his insides. Either she was about to tell him something bad, or she was about to yell at him, or possibly both. There could really be no other reason that merited this many phone calls at this hour. But he stopped thinking about it too much and just did it. Ripping off the bandaid, and all. It didn’t even finish ringing once before it connected, and Kate was suddenly talking way too loud and way too fast in his ear.

“Clint! Thank fuck you fucking idiot- finally! Are you okay? What the hell, man? You can’t just text me out of the blue that shit’s going down and you might be out of contact for the next few days and that it’s a level seven point five on the potential to go fucking wrong scale-”

“Katie, just, stop,” he pleaded with her, but to no avail.

“No, Clint. I won’t stop. You can’t just say you’re okay for now but you also might need to update your fucking will with no context  and then  _ not  _ text me back or pick up the goddamn phone like  _ what the actual fuck you piece of _ -”

Clint let the phone slide out of his hand to the floor. She needed to get it out of her system apparently and he felt enough like death without getting an earful of this. It was too early. He was too out of it. He hardly made sense of what she was saying. He was certainly not prepared to argue with her. 

After a moment, he picked up the phone again. “Katie, you have to understand,” he sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. God he was tired.  “I hardly know what day it is, I don’t even remember when I texted you or what I said, and I can barely understand what you’re saying. Please slow down. I just- I can’t right now.”

He heard her take a deep breath on the other end of the line. “Okay, okay. Sorry. Just, are you alright?”

“Hmm, yeah. Think so. Or I’ll get there.”

“Those aren’t the same things, Clint,” she sighed, exasperated like she had to say it for the hundredth time. And maybe she did. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m pretty okay actually. Could be a lot worse.” 

“Then, can you tell me what’s going on? Please. Is this Avengers stuff, SHIELD stuff, Bed-Stuy stuff? I just- I’m really confused right now.”

“It’s kinda… I’m at the tower. I’ve not been back to Bed-Stuy in, in a while. It’s both. It’s the other two.” Clint stared at the ceiling, drumming his fingers on his sternum. Suddenly he was feeling really, well, he didn’t know a word for it other than bad. 

He missed Bed-Stuy, and he missed Kate, and Lucky too. It had just been rough for the past couple months, just trying to get through one day and then the next but it never got fucking better, no matter how much he tried. If anything it felt like it just got worse. 

Kate, who knew him better than himself sometimes, picked up on the fact that a lot of things were off. But things being off with him wasn’t anything new. “Clint…” she said, sympathetic but also kind of like she were speaking to a child. He was sure she didn’t mean to, or mean anything by it, but he frowned at it, mood soured.

“No, I’m fine. It’ll be fine. I’m not sittin’ here feeling sorry for myself- we’re getting shit done. This isn’t a secure line so I can’t tell you about it but it’ll all be over real soon,” he promised. 

“Clint, I-” she hesitated, and he could picture her now, probably pacing back and forth, pinching the bridge of her nose, probably kicking clothes or loose stuff around the room. “I think I’m coming back.”

“No, no, no, Kate. You don’t need to do that. You shouldn’t. If anything it’s safer if you stay away.” He missed her, yeah. It weighed like a sack of bricks in his gut to tell her to stay away. But, he knew she loved it there. 

She had friends her age and a girlfriend apparently and she was fighting crime her own way with her team and really coming into her own away from him- like, a mentor figure, he guessed- like she needed to- like she deserved to be able to do- and it made him guilty as fuck that she felt like she still needed to look out for him. Fuck. She was like barely out of her teens but she was definitely the adult in their relationship.

“No, look, it’s almost Christmas, and I’m coming back. America’s comin’ with me, too. She’d love to meet you guys,” Kate explained, but Clint couldn’t help but feel like she was trying too hard to justify it.

Clint sighed heavily, trying to shake the rest of the cobwebs away, but failing. “Katie…”

“Clinton…”

“Ugh. Fine. Do whatever. But, be careful, okay?” he asked of her, unsure of what the near future had in store for him or anyone or anything he touched. 

“Awesome. See you soon. And will do, but you be careful too, okay? Promise you won’t do anything stupid. Promise,” she demanded.

“Okay, okay. Promise,” he muttered. “Not like me tryin’ll make a difference. Shit happens whether I try an’ avoid it or not.” 

She opted to ignore his bitching, mostly. “Well that’s a lie, but okay.” She knew arguing would get her nowhere- not right now. But she didn’t say her goodbyes and hang up either. 

“There somethin’ you wanna say still? Now’d be the time.”

“Are you always this much of an ass in the morning? Maybe I  _ have  _ been away for too long. You think it’s early in New York? It’s like 4 AM here. Jesus, go get some coffee why don’t you. Right now I’ve had like three cups of this really great Turkish stuff and I don’t think I’ll sleep for a week.”

“Mmhhmm. When I manage to pick myself off the floor I’ll do that,” he said, lifting his other arm over his head and arching his back in a full body stretch which felt great until something twinged funny and pulled wrong and it felt not so great. “Ow- shit. Ow.”

“You’re joking, right? You’re not actually on the floor?” 

Clint responded with an indecipherable noise he made on a heavy exhale. “I really don’t think either of those things were what you wanted to ask.”

Kate made a frustrated sound, forcing out a pent up breath. “Look, can’t you just tell me a little more about what’s going on? Anything? Anything at all? Or maybe put Nat on the line and she’ll tell me ‘cause she’s not a drama queen like you.”

He winced, flinching. He really wished he could do either of those things. God, he wished he could just spill his guts about everything. But not to her, because she wasn’t his keeper and he felt guilty enough. And not over the phone, because that wasn’t safe at all. Not for him and not for her. “No Kate, I can’t. Sorry.” He hesitated for a moment, not wanting her to go. “Can you tell me more about what you’ve been up to over there, though? I mean, if you’re not busy.”

She scoffed, but he could tell she was grinning. “Not busy? Didn’t I just say I’m absolutely tripping on caffeine right now? If not sleep then what else do you think I could possibly be up to at ass o’clock in the morning?”

He smiled at that too, but he didn’t say anything as she vigorously and with a small bit of pride shining through launched into her account of how she, Kate Bishop, hero and Hawkeye extraordinaire, came to be banned from what must have been all the nightclubs in the city’s north end. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Kate had regaled him for an hour with many a story of beating up douchebags, learning to run blindfolded along the city’s rooftops,  and defending the honor of her apparently ‘very capable of handling herself’ friend who’s a girl who Kate couldn’t talk about without spluttering and blushing so hard Clint could basically hear it, America Chavez.

As great as it was to talk to her- or mostly to just listen to her go on and on- it didn’t change the fact that he still felt like death and he couldn’t keep his eyes open for more than a few seconds and he had almost (okay, he did, very briefly) fall asleep twice while listening. But like, the floor was getting more and more comfortable the longer it went and the more numb he got. 

Or maybe he was just  _ that  _ far gone.

After she had hung up though, he picked himself up off the floor with a lot of wincing and delicate movements, but he only made it as far as the couch, where he didn’t intend to but did anyway fall back asleep. When he woke up again, the fact that everything was still sleep-numbed and fuzzy was probably the only reason he was capable of getting up and to the elevator. But then, coffee was a pretty strong motivator too.

Clint stumbled off the elevator and into the commons around 9 in the morning.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t bothered to, but more like he just hadn’t considered to put a shirt on. His sleep-addled brain’s first and only course of action was to take the shortest direct path to the coffee, and that path didn’t cross his dresser. And his sweatpants- which had never left his brownstone before- were possibly the oldest but his most favoritest and comfiest pair he owned. He loved them, even if the drawstring was broken and they were so worn and stretched out that the only thing that kept them hugging his hips was a hope and a prayer.

He shuffled in, stifling a yawn. The shag carpet was soft and a nice relief from the cold tile of the elevator. Blinking he managed to make his way across the room and into the kitchen without running into a wall or toppling over. 

Natasha sat in her usual place on the counter, between the refrigerator and the sink. She couldn’t help but roll her eyes at the shambling sight her partner made. Hitching up the purple sweatpants that were riding sinfully low on his hips- which was slightly distracting, she would not admit- Clint didn’t even seem to notice when Thor, taking pity on him, nudged him in the direction of the coffeemaker after he teetered in front of the microwave for a minute, staring at it with a mildly confused, blank expression. He did manage to figure out the machine even in his dazed state. Soon he was leaning back against the dishwasher, both hands secured around a steaming mug of black coffee clutched close to his face. 

He hadn’t bothered doctoring it with anything- a sure sign he was out of it. (Contrary to the common assumption, Clint didn’t actually prefer his coffee black... not when he had the mental wherewithal to actually acknowledge what he was drinking, rather than self-medicating with as much caffeine a quickly as possible.) But then, Natasha was impressed that he hadn’t foregone the mug altogether and gone to drinking straight from the pot.

Tony shuffled in barefoot wearing a worn out Nirvana t-shirt and a bed-tousled hairstyle which had both seen better days, looking for once like he had gotten a healthy amount of sleep in a night. However Natasha still wasn’t certain who had won the argument over if working until you pass out from exhaustion counted as sleep, much less so if it could be called healthy. 

Tony made a beeline for the coffee, though spared the seconds to pause in front of Clint, give him a sidelong look like ‘ _ Really? _ ’, muttering something along the lines of, “Fuckin’ exhibitionists these days,” under his breath as he moved on. 

Natasha suppressed a chuckle and made a valiant effort to maintain the expression she was currently wearing- from her morning collection, titled ‘tired, generally unamused, and not to be disturbed’- but seeing as she was not entirely successful, she resorted to hiding a small smirk behind the rim of her mug. 

Fixing her eyes in blank space and using her periphery, staring without staring being an incredible versatile and useful skill she had long ago perfected, she resumed watching Clint try to drag himself back to the land of the living. There was little else to take stock off in the kitchen. His mug unmoving from where he hugged it close against his bottom lip, his only movements were the occasional tilt of the drink and the steady rise and fall of his chest and shoulders. 

Watching someone breathe turned out to be quite uneventful, and soon it turned into cataloguing the deep purple bruises blossoming out across his left side- hip, ribs, shoulder, and bicep- accompanied by a myriad of smaller cuts, scrapes, and bruises which stood out in stark contrast to his tanned, usually smooth complexion. 

The pattern of the worst bruises on his left probably came from crashing through a brick wall at an unfortunate velocity. Then, the fresher one developing over his collar would be because of the debris that clipped him in the blast from yesterday. Of course the cuts around his face, neck, and forearms came from being pushed through a plate glass window, followed by the fall from said window and onto- and a little into- the roof of that car that left him with more than a few bruises and the joint pain of an eighty year old for a while. And then, well, she stopped herself there. She didn’t have all day.

It wasn’t as if he were the only one to take a hit though. Everyone was sporting enough bruising and abrasions to demonstrate that fact, even more prevalently than they sported the shared exhaustion. Natasha had a few close calls herself. Tony- no, not Tony- Sam took a nasty fall from a noteable height and was currently feeling the results. Of course Steve willingly threw himself into the ass-end of trouble, so he had taken to outright denial rather than owning up to the fact that he maybe shouldn’t have jumped, shield or no, in the way of a cannon plasma blast like that. So while he didn’t complain, and while he healed up quickly, not even he went untouched. 

With Clint though, she could probably label every injury that had left its mark, just as she could locate and attribute causes and events to the scars that remained from those past. But there wasn’t much of a lingering feeling of anger or resentment over the fact that he’d been hurt (really that  _ someone _ was to blame for hurting him), seeing as he was fairly alright in the end, especially relative to his usual post-combat state. 

But mostly, she felt none of that because if  _ he  _ didn’t jump back up and return the favor for each landed blow,  _ she _ sure as hell struck back in a timely manner and with extreme prejudice.

Her flashback to the satisfying feeling of her fist landing in the soft vulnerable part of an AIM patrol agent’s throat yesterday was cut short when Steve came practically bounding down the stairs like child on christmas morning.

“Alright team,” he announced, sounding far too chipper, and with a grin on his face that made Natasha nervous. “Our next target is up to bat. Did some research, and it looks like this could be the one we’re after. The jet’s locked on the coordinates, so everybody suit up-”

A collective groan of sheer agony, a wail of outraged disbelief, went up from everyone gathered. Tony’s forehead hit the table with an audible thump. A few R-rated words sounded like they came from Sam’s direction, and Clint looked up from his mug with a silent look of murder in his eyes. Natasha remained quiet, her stare honed in on Steve- the small grin he wore, the humor in his eyes- with more than a little suspicion. 

“Four. Sites,” Clint said slowly, counting off his hand and looking a little shaky still but glaring quite impressively across the kitchen island at Steve, who stood puffed up and looking absolutely pleased with himself, like a fucking buff energizer bunny. 

“Buddy, that’s five fingers. Try again,” Tony said sympathetically, the words slurred because the side of his face was smooshed against the table still.

Clint frowned at his hand dropping a digit. “Four. Sites,” he repeated. “Three. Fucking. Days.”

“I’m gonna kill somebody,” Sam threatened. “Starting with you, Rogers.”

Steve laughed, shaking his head. “Relax, I’m kidding. Take the day off-”

He was interrupted by the groan of relief, the “thank fuck”s and the “fuck you”s muttered indiscriminately from the begrudgingly thankful assembled. 

“You’re very funny, Steve,” Natasha deadpanned. “Very funny.”

“-because we’re moving on it tonight. Cover of darkness, and all.” And the pendulum that was the mood in the room swung back. 

“You serious?” Sam asked, incredulous.

“Yes. But hey, I’m being serious when I say this is an important target,” Steve tried to assure them.

“As I recall, you said the same last time,” Thor pointed out unexpectedly. But hey, he was doing just fine with the smash and dash marathon, just as well if not better than their resident comedic supersoldier, so Natasha didn’t think he had room to complain.

“Here, here,” Tony cheered not even halfheartedly. 

“And the time before that,” Bruce added, having been silent and seemingly having not taken a side up until that point. He shrugged innocently when Steve shot him a betrayed look.

“An’ ‘afore that,” Clint grumbled into his coffee mug, brow furrowed.

“Well, I mean it especially for this one,” Steve said, not the least bit dissuaded from attempting to give some sort of pep talk. “So rest up, do some stretches, and prepare whatever you have to. This one’s big.”

“Yeah, yeah, we get it,” Sam sighed.

While the prospect wasn’t incredibly appetizing, still, it was more doable than it would be in the present moment. So while it was a cruel joke, it also left something resembling relief in it’s wake, whereas there would only be regret and foreboding to simply hear they were going into round five later that night. For that reason, Natasha half suspected that Steve did it on purpose. He could be surprisingly cunning and intuitive that way.

“Wait,” Clint mumbled, putting his coffee down. He was frowning, a mix of equal parts confusion and concentration. “So… when are we going?”

Steve laughed with a little pity, walking over to his teammate who was still not up to operating at full capacity. He came to a stop in front of Clint, clapping him on the shoulder- his good, non-purple shoulder- to bring his attention up from the floor. “Later today,” Steve explained. “Tonight,” as if the rewording might help.

Clint frowned further, eyes narrowing. “So… not right now…?”

“No.”

“No like…” Clint continued, biting the inside of his cheek. “Yes right now?”

Steve laughed. “No like you are correct, no. We are not leaving right now.”

Clint squinted at Steve, frowning still. “So… why did you say we’re leaving right now?”

“My god, did you hit your head worse than we thought or something?” Tony asked, dropping his head into his hands. “Steve was being an ass is why. We aren’t leaving right now. We’re leaving tonight. Later. In the future. I’ll tell you when we’re leaving.” Clint nodded slowly, picking up his coffee again, but his expression still read like he didn’t know exactly what was going on. Tony shook his head, looking up at Steve. “Way to go Cap, you broke him. I hope you’re pleased with yourself.” 

“I did not,” Steve objected. He turned to Natasha. “What’s he on right now?”

“Only his first,” she answered.

“See?” he said, turning back to Tony. “Not my fault. Let me just get that for you…” Steve reached for Clint’s nearly empty mug which was clutched with both hands protectively against his chest, only to withdraw his hand slowly in response to Clint’s cold, unblinking stare coupled with a low sound that could only be described as a growl. “Okay, keep it, plan B, that’s fine.” Steve pulled a new mug from the cabinet, pouring a fresh cup and offering it in return for the empty one in Clint’s death grip. He took it readily, willingly letting go of his old one without any menacing looks or sounds this time.

Steve backed away, turning to survey the kitchen where it appeared that everyone had gathered. Pepper and Rhodes were away, and Thor’s posse had been called out to go science something that fell out of the sky in Oregon, so it was the whole Avengers gang, Sam officially indoctrinated. They even got him his own laminated ID card. (He joined Clint in bemoaning that there were no discounts attached and that it was thus useless, because in the words of their very own Hawkeye, “What they hell do you think I do this shit for?”)

“Alright,” he said, taking stock of the coffee all around, but no apparent food. “Has anyone here actually had something to eat for breakfast?”

“Had something for breakfast? Or ate something for breakfast?” Tony asked, weighing the semantics. 

“Ate something,” Steve clarified. “Coffee doesn’t count.” No one responded to that, with Tony only shrugging. “I’ll take that as a resounding no. Okay.”

Breakfast ensued in true Avengers fashion: it was hectic and cluttered, fast paced and perhaps overly ambitious for some while slower and more cautious for others, with the occasional dangerous trans-kitchen projectile or semi-accidental minor injury. 

Wielding a switchblade- a decorative piece, because the pearled handle with silver engraving, despite being beautifully balanced, would require far too much effort to scrub the blood from after each use- Natasha delicately sliced a thin sliver of apple from the fruit in her hand. She considered it for a moment before nibbling it daintily, surveying the scene around her from her countertop perch. Legs crossed, lounging back, she was quite contented to remain a silent observer.

“Steve, if your hand wanders too near my bagel again, I’m gonna stab it,” Sam warned, pointing his butter knife at the culprit. “Quit tryin’a steal it.”

Steve held his hands up, the picture of innocence and faux-indignation. “I did no such thing.”

“I saw you. I watched you do it,” Sam insisted.

“If only the public knew what a petty criminal their golden boy is,” Tony mourned. “A liar and a thief.”

“An’ he cheats at cards,” Clint added around a mouthful of cold leftover pancakes he had retrieved from the back of the refrigerator. He was a good deal more coherent after his fourth cup of coffee.

“You,” Steve pointed a condemning finger at Clint, “are one to talk.”

“I don’t see you denyin’ it.”

“If I was cheating, why didn’t you call me out then and there and prove it?”

“Cause you were cheating badly and I was winning,” Clint said with a grin.

“Oh please,” Sam complained, rolling his eyes. “You both cheat. Hell, admit it. We all cheat when we can or else Barton or Romanoff would win every goddamn hand.” There was an uproar of indignation and hurt feelings over that assertion. “For christ’s sake,” Sam yelled over the commotion. “We found five aces in the deck last time!”

“I don’t cheat,” Banner said quietly from where he was rinsing his plate in the sink.

“No, of course you don’t, Brucie,” Tony said, reaching over to pat him reassuringly on the back. “What a nasty thing to say,” he directed with a haughty look at Sam.

“Ridiculous. Clint, we all know  _ you _ cheat, we just haven’t figured out how yet.” Clint shrugged at that with a lopsided grin, hiking his sweatpants up again. Steve turned back to Sam. “And  _ you _ . Do you always threaten to commit felony assault due to perceived slights?” Steve shook his head. “You should get that checked out.”

“Felony assault? I thought we were talking about a butter knife here,” Bruce sighed.

“That raises the question, now doesn’t it. Is a butter knife legally considered a deadly weapon?” Tony mused, refilling his mug. “If I were to bet on it, I’d say probably not.”

“Actually,” Clint cut in, “If you’re interested, unless you’re in Florida or a school zone, you’d have a hard time arguing it’s a deadly weapon.”

“And we’ll just take your word for it?” Steve frowned. 

“I may have had reasons to look into that once,” Clint said, “about which I’m gonna plead the fifth. But, it’s important to add-” Clint drained the last dregs of coffee from his mug “-the felony part depends more on the intent and the injury inflicted than on the weapon.”

“So, does that make stabbing someone with a butter knife a felony, regardless of the weapon status?” Tony asked no one in particular, contemplating it.

“You have very confusing laws regarding combat,” Thor remarked. Steve nodded begrudgingly at that. 

“If,” Sam continued, “you  _ can  _ actually stab someone with a butter knife. It being far from sharp and pointy, and all.”

Breaking her silence, Natasha laughed quietly to herself, her mouth curling into a smile. Heads turned her way, eyes flicking between her and the flash of the knife she twirled gracefully in her hand. “Oh, you can make it work.”

There was a brief pause which Tony broke unceremoniously. “Well that’s not creepy or anything.” She just smiled at him, and resumed slicing her apple without breaking eye contact.

Bruce exhaled heavily, snagging a piece of toast from Tony’s plate. “Learn something new every day, I suppose.” 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Their day of rest passed all too quickly. It seemed to drip past like molasses whenever Clint remembered why that nagging, foreboding, persistent feeling of dread was hanging around the back of his sleep and food distracted consciousness. But then, he would manage to forget for a brief moment that they had an impending date with what was apparently going to be their largest and most dangerous target yet, and the time slipped through his unknowing hands like sand. 

The hourglass was running down. 

This next target, a complex of buildings interconnected by concrete and electrical wires and too many fences and razor wire, could very well be it.  _ The  _ it. The quintessential, ultimate, end of the many months long, much abhorred, greatly detested, painful and fearful and political and downright confusing mission to prevent AIM from designing a super-virus and turning it into an airborne biological weapon of mass destruction. Because, it would be just loads of fun if something like  _ that  _ was put on the black market.

Clint wondered when getting thrown into a van by Russian gangsters in Bed-Stuy outside his Brownstone and having to fend them off in a bare knuckle street fight turned into losing faith in SHIELD and living with gods and heroes among men and hunting down international terrorist organizations. 

He kinda missed the Russian dude bros in the tracksuits. Even when they  _ were  _ chasing after him with MAC 10s and baseball bats, he probably would classify it as better than this.

_ This _ , so much of this, was espionage and warfare’s ugly forbidden lovechild. The one that everyone, with all the media attention and speculation and the politics and reality of today’s world, knew existed, but that no one- certainly not the public, not the politicians, and apparently not so much even SHIELD anymore- wanted to acknowledge. So the poor thing got locked away in the basement, only to be let out at night, under the cover of smoke screens and shadows.

These kinds of things are never supposed to see the light of day.

This particular night brought them to the still, clear and cold sky dotted with stars like specs of ice over the Sandhills of Nebraska: practically a desert, with rolling hills of prairie grass for as far as the eye could see, without so much as a scrawny low lying shrub to offer some new texture or dimension to the landscape. 

The blast of wind in Clint’s face was the type of cold that made his eyes water and sent ice shards tearing through his lungs, ripping his breath away and leaving him gasping. But he inhaled deeply nonetheless, forcing himself to hold it in despite the burning cold exploding through his chest for as long as he could before letting it out in a rush. The white wisps of his breath were snatched away on the wind as soon as they appeared.

The Quinjet was flying slowly, low to the ground, and the engines were nearly silent, with all shields up against any sort of detection by machine or eye. Hopefully, that is. Clint had his fingers crossed. The bay door was open, and the ramp upon which he crouched while holding onto the cargo netting above him with both hands to keep himself securely in place was halfway descended. It was enough to keep the craft aerodynamic and to sustain a steady flight, especially at their speed, and it let Clint keep a sweeping watch on their surroundings from behind as they neared the complex. (Too many close calls with missiles and all that.) More importantly, it would let them make a rapid deployment into position.

He adjusted his grip. When the Quinjet rocked on a gust of wind, he shifted his balance and went down on one knee. Beside the wind blasting loudly in his ears, everything, and everyone, was quiet. The rolling grass covered hills were silent, absent any sort of noise or movement or lifeform larger than a fieldmouse. And inside the Quinjet, the atmosphere was heavy, quiet, contemplative of the steps that had led them there and the steps they were about to take next. It was like this whenever they were about to enter a combat scenario, or whenever there was an unpredictable or dangerous X factor, and the reality that in a few short hours they would be standing on the other side, or not at all, hit them full force in the gut. It wasn’t tense though, so to say. Not like that. It wasn’t so much anxiety as it was cautiousness. 

It struck a deep contrast with the flippant and lighthearted scene they had played out that morning. They had been friends that morning, coping with the trying circumstances they found themselves in. But in this moment, they were colleagues and partners. And in this moment, each one of them depended on the others to watch their six, to keep their focus, and to do their job. 

Steve appeared over his shoulder, taking a knee behind him so as to keep close to the rigging they gripped tightly, and to avoid the downward slope and gaping open mouth of the bay door. One wrong step out there, with the wind tearing at their gear and the gusts causing some turbulence, could very well result in a rather unfortunate tumble from the sky. He yelled something- or tried to- over the howling wind that roared through the belly of the jet, but it was lost. Clint turned to look at him over his shoulder, shaking his head and briefly signing ‘no good’, which thankfully only required him to give up one point of contact with the jet rather than two.

‘See anything?’ Steve repeated, this time in ASL. It had its tactical uses as well.

‘Not much. Just that.’ Clint pointed off to his left, approximately the jet’s two o’clock. 

There, not five miles away, they were rounding in on an imposing gray figure barely illuminated in the dim moonlight which set it apart from the homogenous backdrop, dotted sparsely with the faint glow of artificial yellow and red light. The massive concrete complex covered nearly a square mile, reaching up several stories high enough to mar the horizon line and spreading roads outward in every direction for hundreds of miles. 

It was isolated, to say the least. On paper it was a military research facility, operated and directed under the purview of a subcontractor. The paper trail indicated that said subcontractor of course was enveloped inside a larger private military contract firm, which led back to another larger firm, and then a bank, and shell corporation after corporation, which based on the transactions, accounts, and companies detailed in the Blackbriar information, all fell inside the rather large shadow AIM was casting.

AIM had spread itself like a cancer through both legitimate and illegitimate means for years. SHIELD may have been trimming the edges, intervening where it became too prominent too quickly and thus compromised itself, but it was far from enough to curtail the overall growth. In the last few days, their team did more to disrupt and fragment AIM’s internal command structure and operations than years of SHIELD’s addressing of the symptoms of it. But it needed follow up, a massive operation with more manpower and time than they could afford to give it in order to put AIM down for good, or at least for as long as possible, given their preeminent task was to retrieve the stolen virus and destroy AIM’s research and the technology to weaponize it.

In short, that meant that after this was over, they needed to get SHIELD back on their side and on top of this. That was easier said than done though. Despite all the uncertainties, Clint  _ was  _ sure of one thing: there would be reprisals, and if he or Nat even had a job still after everything they’d done in the past week came to light, he was not going to enjoy those reprisals.

Steve had an eerie way of reading people. The guy was all empathy under that shell of rage and underhanded cunning that he kept well hidden bottled up under that visible layer of levelheaded and noble generic-brand heroism. He probably had a sixth sense for the conflicted thoughts and concerns bouncing around the inside of Clint’s skull, or something. Regardless of why, Clint felt the man grab his shoulder, and turned back to see him- all confidence and self-security- sign, ‘Stick with the plan. Stick together. Everything will be alright in the end.’

He nodded, turning back to watch the dull landscape and the gray concrete monolith growing in the distance as they neared it. Stick together, stick with the plan, stick together, stick to the plan, stick together, stick to the plan. Hopefully, both of those things would see them safely through the incoming storm they were about to hit headlong, as well as through the aftershocks that would surely follow.


	15. silhouettes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is kinda late. If it helps, I've already got half of the next chapter written. Surprise surprise, it started to get away from me so I decided to publish this bit. 
> 
> Lots of angst and violence and swearing. Yell at me about it in the comments. It'll make me get the next update out faster.

It was all flashing red alarms, blue plasma, and explosions. AIM agent after agent poured out of buildings and into the night. Collisions and shock waves shook the very air and the ground beneath them alike.

“Iron Man!” Steve yelled over the comms, “stay the hell out of there! It’s a fish bowl down there-” A nearby explosion forced him to dive for cover. It was one of the weird repulsor grenades these AIM security personnel seemed way too eager to use that emitted an oddly flashing pulse, powerful enough to rip through concrete and send bodies flying.

Stark’s Iron Man suit roared past Clint’s perch at the corner of a north-east quadrant roof, jets burning and carrying him high into the air before he came to a stop and held his altitude. “Alright, I’m out, but who wants to clarify what a ‘fish bowl’ is?”

“A kill box.” Natasha’s voice came over the comms, unhurried and almost worthy of the description ‘bored’ despite the fact Clint just saw her tackle an agent to the ground from behind and roll away into the shadows, leaving him motionless on the ground. “No cover, walled in, unfriendlies all around. Like shooting fish in a barrel, when you’re the fish. Pick your metaphor.”

She and Steve were referencing the rather sizable crater that Banner- all Hulked out and smashing through buildings like a wrecking ball- had left in the ground. The entire facade and a good portion of the building that made up the west wing of the complex was demolished and sliding down in a mountain of rubble. It left three exposed floors, from which AIM agents had taken to spraying down the central concrete courtyard where they attempted the contain the fighting.

“Ah, lovely,” Tony replied, aiming with one raised gauntlet and firing a deceptively small rocket that packed a hell of a blast into the middle of the already exposed western building. By the time the blindingly bright flames in the dark subsided and the dust and smoke cloud cleared, Stark was already gone and moving on to a newly identified weak spot.

“Cap!” Sam warned from his bird’s eye view above the chaos. “Four of ‘em at your six.” Searching the field of combat below, Clint saw Steve was still trying to haul himself up out of the dust while keeping two guys on his left flank busy.

It was dark, with little moonlight, and the dust and debri from Thor and Hulk blasting buildings and vehicles apart made visibility more of a challenge. Still, he had a clear line of sight from his vantage point. On the ground though, it was worse. Steve and Natasha were making the most of their battlefield, skulking about the craters and piles of vehicles and large chunks of buildings, moving with speed and striking with precision. Steve was more straightforward about it. Natasha though… she was everywhere and wasn’t anywhere at once.

Clint figured that was a good time to try out one of his shiny new arrows that go boom. Fingers skimming the fletching, he sighted his marks, and felt the familiar strain against the draw. “I got eyes on ‘em, Falcon. Cap, stay put.”

“Acknowledged,” Steve replied, bashing a yellow clad AIM agent with his shield and sending him flying with a well placed kick to the sternum.

Clint released the arrow, but had little time to watch it hit with a flash of fire in the dark. He heard the heavy metal access door behind him slam open, followed by yelling and multiple sets of boots running over the gravel. He spun on a dime, crouching low and notching another arrow as he did. Across the roof, two agents wielding those same rather unfortunate plasma-stuff-spewing guns were sprinting at him.

While getting hit with this particular brand of unfortunate weaponry was definitely a very bad idea, unless a molten crater in your chest was the goal, there were two things they had picked up from their run-ins with them last time time around. Number one, the guns were only able to maintain some semblance of accuracy at a rather short range- hence the two guys running at him as Clint knelt and carefully sighted down his EMP arrow. Number two, they were far too high-tech for their own good. When they malfunctioned, they did so spectacularly. It was almost funny. Almost.

At twenty-five yards distance, Clint let the arrow fly directly at the gun clutched in the hands of the nearest AIM patrol agent still barreling at him. It contacted, and one itty bitty electromagnetic pulse later, Clint was diving face first into the gravel as a powerful shock wave carried rock fragments, blue glowing molten plasma, and other unpleasant bits across the roof in every direction way too quickly.

He groaned as his whole body throbbed from the impact, brushing the gravel off before rolling up to his feet and taking off at a jog along the edge of the roof.

Clint had been helpfully deposited there (a process which involved a little too much speed and skidding to a halt across the gravel, thank you) by Stark at the onset of their assault. Luckily, the roofs were all sprawling flat terrain (he couldn’t imagine they were very energy efficient and they probably leaked something awful in the rain), ranging from two to four stories with fairly jumpable gaps and fine footing for climbing up or moving about.

Unfortunately, apparently AIM had a reason for making them so remarkably traversable. Stationed at intervals throughout the entire complex, armed AIM patrol agents stood watch and rained down a hail of plasma below, making it difficult for the team with boots on the ground to make headway.

Their solution to that was for Clint, Tony, and Sam to begin clearing the roofs of their sentinels, Clint beginning from the south-east corner and the other two taking to the air across the buildings opposite. Locking down the high ground simultaneously drove AIM’s armed guards out into the once-open, now wrecked courtyard between the buildings and wings of the complex. There, Thor and the Hulk broke up the worst clusters when not causing general destruction and disarray to the surrounding infrastructure, and Natasha and Steve were working their way toward penetrating the central hub of the complex: the north building.

Clint was supposed to join them down there. That was the plan. But currently, he was having a little bit of trouble keeping eyes on his teammates below while also watching his own back in his rooftop hellscape to simultaneously get himself to the north side of the complex in a timely fashion. These assholes kept popping out of every other rooftop door, service hatch, auxiliary trapdoor, and Hulk or Mjolnir-impact sized crater in the roof he passed. It felt like he was playing goddamn whack-a-mole or something.

Not to mention, he had approximately zero cover from any unfriendlies on pretty much any of the rooftops, except for what his flying or smashing compatriots and the shitty long-range accuracy of AIM’s weaponry provided him.

All in all, it was real exciting stuff. Run, fire an arrow or two, hit the gravel occasionally to not die, keep tabs on Nat and Steve below, watch out for flying bits of Hulk-pulverized building, watch his own six, another arrow, repeat. Did he mention that it was also exhausting?

“Hawkeye, do you have sights on the group of agents to my four o’clock?” Steve asked over the comms, a little out of breath.

“Um,” Clint skidded to a halt at the corner of his roof adjacent to the front corner of the north building, scanning the field below. “Yeah, I got ‘em.”

“Can you cover me?”

Clint grinned. “Yep. Roger that, Rogers” he responded a little too smugly. He nocked an arrow and waited at half draw to see what his next moves where.

He heard Steve sigh heavily, probably rolling his eyes. “It’s really not that funny,” was all he said, monotone, before Clint saw him leap into action again.

Clint inhaled sharply, held it as he straightened up, feeling the familiar strain in his back and shoulders as he drew back until the fletching brushed his jaw, and released. That arrow was quickly followed by another, and again, until the AIM agents that had been holding the high ground atop a humvee toppled and Steve was able to cut through the cluster on the ground without a hail of gunfire from above.

“Widow, a group of them up ahead,” Steve called out, drafting a plan. “I’ll draw their fire. Flank them from the rear.”

“Copy, give me a minute to get clear.”

Clint peered over the edge to see Natasha dart across a narrow opening. She picked her way over the rubble with cat-like grace, leapt from the top of a crumpled vehicle to land with daggers drawn on the shoulders of an AIM agent, and leaving a crumpled body in her wake, disappeared from Clint’s line of sight into a cloud of dust and the dark shadow of the building.

A colorful flash of movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention.

Turning toward what had been the very Fort Knox style main entrance, before the Hulk threw a couple humvees through the concrete wall and razor wire fencing and came hurtling through the metal gates, taking out a watchtower as he went, Clint saw a squad of yellow-clad agents flooding out of the buildings on either side. There were at least thirty of them, more still coming out in full force. He saw vehicles begin moving into place as well. They were quickly closing ranks and fanning out across the mangled gap. And they were facing this way.

“Captain, we’ve got a bigger problem on our hands,” Clint warned, honing in on their movements. “By the front gate, lots of AIM guys, probably more on the way.

“Thor, get eyes on them,” Steve called out, grunting as he took plasma fire to his shield and felt the force of it.

Thor went soaring into the air, clouds darkening and lightening ripping open the sky as he came to alight on the edge of the roof nearer the gates. “I see them, two score strong and still gathering. With strange vehicles, like your military’s tanks, but larger. Shall I meet them?” he asked, voice booming out a little too excitedly for Clint’s liking.

“Depends,” Steve said, straining audibly as he heaved a large cement slab against a wrecked car to create more cover for himself.

“Any minute now they’ll start combing through the courtyard,” Clint cut in. “They’re fanning out.”

Thor voiced his agreement.

Steve sighed, taking a quick breather. “Great, just what we needed.” He paused, thinking before he proceeded to call out new marching orders. “Widow, what’s your twenty?”

“The targets are at my twelve o’clock, fifteen in total,” Natasha replied, voice low and sounding a lot more steady than Clint felt. “I’m in the new doorway Banner left for us in the north building- very thoughtful of him. Waiting on that distraction you keep talking about, Steve.”

Clint could hear the slight lilt in her voice, and could picture the smirk he knew was curling the corner of her mouth right now. He could picture it even better than he could picture Steve’s epic eye roll.

And Clint couldn’t help but grin at that.

“Okay, Hawkeye, meet us down here. Falcon, with me. Thor, hit ‘em with everything you’ve got. Iron Man, assist. Let Hulk keep doing what he’s doing or try and pull him in if need be. Do _not_ let them advance. Copy?”

“We’ll hold down the fort,” Tony assured them amidst the chorus of affirmative responses. “Holler if you need anything.”

Crouching down behind the shallow lip of the roof, Clint squinted through the dark at the tank-like vehicles Thor had mentioned, which were becoming clearer. “Thor, Stark, be careful with those tank things. They look a bit like a buffed up version of SHIELD’s TR-97s, and those things-” Clint heard the faint whirring of a repulsor grenade, and spun on his heels to see an AIM agent 15 meters away hightailing it out of there. A flash of silver and blue arcing through the air caught his eye. “Aww, _no_.”

 _No cover, no time, no cover, no time_. A mantra in his head.

While reaching over his shoulder for the familiar feel of the fletching at his fingertips, he vaulted over the side of the roof, nothing between him and the cracked and blackened concrete forty feet below.

Twisting in midair, the seconds slowed to minutes as he watched the rooftop and the path of the grenade above him, moving away and away as he fell. Notching the arrow, drawing the string, releasing- just muscle memory. Instinct by now. To break the fall. To not die. To not get blown to pieces that need to get scraped up off the concrete.

_This looks bad._

The arrow grabbed hold of the concrete pillar running the face of the building. In a rush the line was pulled taut but he was still falling. He knew it was too fast and he was arcing toward the building, toward the plate glass windows, and he braced for impact feet first but then- an explosion ripped through the air around him.

All of it happened too fast, in the span of mere seconds. First was the noise, the crashing orchestra of _noise_ that turned to awful static shrieking in his ears while it felt like they popped from a change in pressure all at once. The night sky, the reflection in the windows, everything awash with blinding, brilliant red and orange light. And the _heat_ . He didn’t have time to register anything other than how wrong that was. In the same millisecond came the shock wave he _felt_ in every part of him, like the resonance of deep bass from really killer speakers in his chest. Except it was a car. And then he was crashing into the building, ripped from the sky even as he fell, his bow- his lifeline torn- from his hands.

He had tried to angle himself but now he was flailing. There was pain…

… and then nothing…

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

He came around sharply, too quickly, instincts driving him back to consciousness in a spontaneous, desperate bid to survive. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t get enough air into his lungs, and that was the only thing he knew.

Clint jerked awake, body convulsing, curling inward, his chest heaving and he was coughing, gagging, choking on the dust and ash and thick smoke roiling in the air but the heat was far worse. The frigid night had been replaced by a bone dry, suffocating inferno.

Everything was numb, heavy, dull. His ears were ringing, more like a throbbing feeling than a sound. His eyes were open but his vision was swimming, everything bathed in flickering orange light, and around the edges it was black and closing in. But he saw the mess around him, the debris, the collapse. He was half buried, inside the building, shoving the loose pieces of shredded wood and twisted rebar metal and shattered concrete off of him.

 _Fuck_.

Doubled over and gasping for breath, he hauled himself out of the chaos, away from the wreckage that was the floors having caved in, the building facade shattered, broken glass and rock everywhere, out until he felt a cold breeze at the back of his neck. He was seeing stars, head spinning, but then someone grabbed him. An arm was around his middle pulling him away. Still heaving for breath, the darkness closing in around him like a tunnel collapsing. The strength he had managed to summon up with everything he had left, just to get out, was failing him. He stumbled, the ground rushing up to meet him.

The world turned upside down.

All of the time in the world and no time at all had passed before Clint came around a second time, having very little consciousness of actually having passed out, and approximately zero comprehension of whatever the hell just happened.

He was sprawled on his side, hard and rough concrete beneath him, dark clouds above him. He could breathe, though it hurt. He could move his limbs, though it was all numb. He began moving and checking fingers, toes, just making sure all his extremities were intact.

A pained sound he couldn’t hear left his raw throat as he shifted onto his back, coughing and inhaling sharply, again and again until he returned to semi-normal steady breathing. All he registered next was a figure- a person- crouching over him. Alarm bells went off in some foggy recess of his mind, not that Clint could have fended the person off if he tried.

The thudding in his ears eased, and miraculously, his aids seemed to be at least mostly operational. The fog filling his head like cotton cleared, and in the dimming glow of the fires that lit up the night, the blurred outline of a man cleared into someone he recognized. Sam Wilson. A friendly face. His back was to an overturned SUV which covered both of them, assault rifle in hand as he alternated looking over his shoulder and back down at Clint.

“What,” Clint gasped, voice rasping, “ _the fuck_ … happened?” He struggled to sit, but was floored by the sudden surge of pain he hadn’t even registered until then, having only felt a dull thundering numbness. Just about every muscle, every bone, every fiber of his being ached something awful. He flopped down on the concrete, sprawled on his back.

Words began to become more clear. “Hey, don’t do that,” Sam was saying loudly. “Hey, can you hear me? Stay still. You with me, Barton?”

Clint grunted out something somewhat affirmative, though mostly unintelligible, and attempted to nod slightly. He let his eyes fall closed. God, he was so tired. He was never going to move again.

But Sam wouldn’t have it. “No no no,” he chided, grabbing the collar of his suit and fucking _shaking_ him.

Clint grunted in pain, his head throbbing. “Fuckin’ stop. Fuck this, ow, ow. _Fuck._ ”

“You don’t get to do that. Open your fucking eyes, jackass,” Sam demanded. Clint didn’t want to, but he forced his eyes open if only to glare at his rescuer-turned-assailant.

“Fuck off,” he cursed from behind gritted teeth, batting Sam’s hand away. “Git off, ‘m fine.” Ignoring the other man’s protest, Clint tried again to move- out of spite, to put distance between himself and Sam, to attempt and gather what was left of his dignity- but only succeeded in getting halfway to sitting before falling back against the side of the car. He stopped there until the dark began to creep back toward the edges of his vision, slouched against the cool metal surface, exhausted and feeling like his bruises’ bruises had bruises.

“Hey, stop moving. I mean it. If you up and keel over on me again, I’m not hauling your dumb ass outta here,” Sam threatened, but the level of concern showing in the expression he wore said otherwise.

“You’re a big ol’ softy,” Clint muttered, too tired and feeling too much like someone was hammering the inside of his skull to try and raise his volume. “Totally undermines the credibility of your threats.”

Sam ignored him, but he gave up on his lecturing. He checked Clint’s pulse at his wrist, though Clint tried to swat him away.

“Stop it, m’fine,” he repeated, but Sam was interrupted before he could respond by the comms buzzing back to life, barely audible at first with an overlay of heavy static.

“-bout now? Any--- read me? Come on, somebody give me a sign here-”

“Yeah, Iron Man. I read you,” Sam answered, a hand going up to his comm unit.

“Thank fuck--- do--- have Hawkeye in your sights?”

“Wow, Stark,” Clint tried to say, but was seized by a momentary coughing fit. “You sound concerned for me. That’s embarrassing,” Clint laughed, which sounded painful even to him.

“You fucker-” A string of static and loud explosions, carried both over the comms and through the air, cut him out for a moment. “-leave it to you --- blown up and a caught inside a building collapse.”

Sam turned sharply over his shoulder, going for his weapon when another figure came leaping in over the front of the car and skidded to a stop. Sam relaxed quickly though, and Steve’s face came into view in front of Clint.

“Hey there,” he greeted him, giving Clint a once over look before he was apparently satisfied that nothing was life threatening. “That didn’t look too good from where I was standing. Probably felt worse.”

“Fuck you, too,” Clint responded, letting his head thunk back against the car door. Steve responded by dropping something heavy- his bow, he realized, soot blackened but otherwise blessedly okay- onto Clint’s chest. “Okay, I take it back.”

Steve ignored him, turning to look through the smoke and wreckage toward the southern edge of the complex where the gates once stood, lit up in a flash by lightning arcing to the ground with a loud crack. “Iron Man, sitrep.”

“We’re fine, but Thor and I are hard pressed to hold these guys ba-” More static. “-tanks --- goddamn goliaths, impossible to ---  just absorbs any amount of energy you throw at it and chucks it right back out at your face. Jarvis --- looking into solutions.”

“Widow, what’s your status?”

There was a moment of silence that sent Clint’s heart racing faster than it already was before he heard her voice over the comms. “I’m clear of the blast,” she said, sounding somehow worse than before, though it was understandably why. “Inside the building --- cover and awaiting your next move.”

“You okay, Nat?” Clint asked.

Her response was short and audibly terse, even through the static. “Fine. Now someone tell me, what _was_ that?”

“I also, for the record, would like to know, what _the fuck_ happened?” Clint added, disbelief and confusion and the shock of it all bringing his voice up an octave. He stared blankly- with a clear head for the first time- at the blasted and blackened corner of the building from which he had jumped. A jagged hole had been ripped through the sides, and the floors were collapsing on one another. “I was dodging one of those grenade things? But, _that,_ and, all the fire… they don’t… do that?” He just shook his head.

Clint gave up on trying to comprehend anything that had just happened.

“No,” Steve agreed, shaking his head and pointing behind the vehicle in the direction Clint’s back was turned. “They don’t. That did.”

Forcing himself to lean forward from the twisted metal he had been resting back against, he twisted around and looked over it to see the face of the north building- correction: what _had been_ the face of the north building. Now there was just a smoking crater in the side of the building reaching all the way down into the ground, soot-black and smoking, multiple floors and the bones of the structure exposed. Small tongues of flame licking at the edges were all that remained of the inferno, smoke still drifting up and lingering among the damage. The radius of the blast meant the damage extended across the courtyard a good ways and to either side, tearing into the adjacent buildings.

Given the sheer force and heat of the explosion he felt… this made a lot more sense. _Damn. Why couldn’t he have just been hit with the grenade?_

There were bodies strewn among the rubble. Everything was still and quiet in the flashing dim red light that illuminated the space, the exception being the noise and flashes of light coming from the south. However, from inside the structure’s gaping, jagged wound that was still bleeding smoke and that had torn through the main doors, stretches of windows, and concrete walls all down the side of it, Clint saw movement.

AIM agents. Gathering, coordinating themselves inside.

He struggled to get to his feet, but when he started feeling lightheaded and seeing black spots, he stopped that attempt and fell to his knees, staying there. He tried to focus on deep breathing, tried to pull himself back together as he took stock of things.

“What,” Clint asked, clearing his throat as he took it all it, “what did that?”

“I don’t know,” Steve answered. “One minute we were making headway and the next...” He motioned wordlessly to the crumbling building.

Natasha spoke up to finish the sentence. “The front of the building was suddenly concave --- debris raining down halfway across the-”

She didn’t finish.

Chaos erupted.

A secondary explosion cut through the atmosphere, slamming Clint, Sam, and Steve to the ground as a massive plume of fire roared into the sky and washed the world in red light and black silhouettes. In the flip of a switch, the earsplitting, thunderous cacophony of noise vanished, replaced by a dull silence enveloping him, a far off piercing ringing echoing through the cotton that filled his ears and head.

Then it was dead silent.

Clint forced himself up onto his elbows, crawling and dragging himself to the side of the crumpled SUV. He grabbed Sam by the shoulder as the man struggled to his knees and hauled him with a powerful jerk to take cover beside him, pressed close to their limited cover as blue flares of plasma beamed over them or boiled in the miniature craters they left on their metal and concrete rubble barricade.

As Sam began to return fire Clint grabbed his bow from the ground and scrambled to the rear end of the vehicle, nearer the north building and the origin of the blast.

His heart was pounding out of his chest. He could feel it throbbing in every inch of him, every bruise and abrasion, could hear nothing but the blood racing behind his ears. Every breath he took was shallow, rapid, and ragged, like the onset of a panic attack.

_Oh god. Where is Natasha? Where- she was in the north building. In the building. The explosion, again, it came- it came from- oh god no. No no no no no._

He was yelling, screaming, her name ripped from his throat like his heart was torn from his chest. But it was no good. Not even he could hear himself call out to her.

Everything was a blur of movement, of ducking for cover as bullets and flashes of blue hailed down around him, of eyes burning and watering searching desperately through the haze of the red glow and smoke and dust and the dark for anything, _anything_ , any sign of her. The sides of the building were still crumbling, the floors collapsing and sliding down into the ruins on the far side. It was muted, toneless, _unreal_. Detached like he was pulled from reality, left drifting but anchored by the terror, paralyzed, forced to watch hs nightmares unfold before his too awake, too aware eyes.

His head was spinning.

Even when Clint’s ears popped painfully and sound came bursting back into the world in a rush of noise, yelling and gunfire and explosions, static was roaring in his ears. The comms, long struggling, were dead, forcing him to manually turn it off in order to get any use out of his fritzing-out aids. The comms were dead and she was _gone_. He couldn’t see her. She didn’t come running into the fray, he couldn’t hear her, or listen to her snap that she was fine and he should stop worrying. She was gone.

Clint was heaving for breath. AIM agents gathering despite Sam and Steve’s efforts to drive them back, hail of bullets and plasma, all of it be damned. His thoughts were scattered, racing around his head, the panic rising in his chest as every fiber in his being screamed the same thing.

He didn’t even know what he was doing, not before all of the terrified energy that had previously paralyzed him sent him erupting into action, springing forward and away from the vehicle he had crouched behind. Either he didn’t feel the pain or he ignored it. It just wasn’t there. He made it about two steps however before he felt an arm around his middle and a hand descend on his shoulder, yanking him back with enough force to take him off his feet.

His shoulderblades slammed into the car door, and Captain America- cold, stern, angry- held him firmly pinned in place, unyielding even as he shoved violently at Rogers, trying everything to dislodge his arms and writhe free. But it was to no avail. “Get off!” he yelled, still thrashing violently, voice hoarse and breaking. “Natasha-”

“I know,” he grit out, jaw tight,  straining to subdue him. “Listen-”

“I’m not fucking leaving her! Fuck off,” Clint swore, his breath catching in his throat from the pain as he struggled for leverage, twisting and kneeing Rogers in the stomach _hard_. It only resulted in the other man wrestling him to the ground.

“You have to stop!” Rogers yelled from on top of him, twisting an arm behind his back. Although before Clint’s face was shoved into the concrete, he saw the stone mask the other man wore crack, pain in Steve’s eyes and etched deeply in his face. “Barton, I swear to god, fucking listen to me-”

“- _get off!_ ”

“Please-”

“ _-fuck you_ \- _”_ Clint snarled, sending an elbow crashing into Steve’s jaw as he tried to twist around. Steve grabbed the material of his suit by the scruff of his neck, lifted him up a fraction and slammed his chest into the concrete hard enough to knock the wind from him, leaving Clint gasping and coughing on the ground.

Steve eased off, kneeling beside him but with a hand still planted firmly on his back should he try to escape again. “Listen! You run out there and you’re gonna get yourself killed, Clint! I’ve got one teammate unaccounted for- don’t make it two. And I’m not abandoning her. We stop, we pull together, and then we go get her. Okay?” He paused, breathing hard. “Please,” he begged. “I know y-” he inhaled sharply, then just shook his head. “Just, _please_. Wait.”

Clint rolled to his side, facing away from the man kneeling over him. He coughed, ragged and painful and convulsing until there was a metallic taste in his mouth and his eyes were watering. He slowly got his forearms underneath him, pushing himself to his hands and knees where he sat back on his heels, head and shoulders still hunched over, scraped and battered and bloodied hands steadying himself on the concrete.

He squeezed his eyes shut, stemming the tears and summoning up whatever self control he had left to stop the heaving of his chest and the racing of his pulse. He was _shaking_ , arms trembling. He nodded, a jerk of his head, still incapable of looking up to face Steve.

“‘Kay,” he rasped, wiping his sleeve across his red-tinged mouth, nodding. “Okay.”

“You done?”

“Yes,” Clint said, nodding weakly again. He may have lost it, and even though it was still killing him on the inside, wrenching his panicking heart out of his chest and tying him up in knots knowing with each passing second Natasha could be hurt or slipping farther and farther away- or, worse, which he refused to think about- but he wasn’t completely beyond reason. He couldn’t get past the supersoldier. And it would probably kill him, going after her without a plan or backup or a clear head. So no, he wasn’t entirely beyond reason.

Not yet.

Not when he could still convince himself Natasha was okay.

“Alright,” Steve said, exhaling heavily. Despite maintaining what was probably a more logical approach that came off as too callous, Clint saw that he wasn’t without sympathy, or fear and concern of his own. “We’re going to find her. We will.” He took a deep steadying breath and rose to his feet. “We will.”

Clint wasn’t sure which of them he was reassuring. 


	16. and then there was one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: More graphic descriptions of violence than usual. You should be able to skip over it, if you want to, without missing anything significant.
> 
> Also I apologize for NOTHING HAHAHAHAHAHA bite me

“Incoming!” Sam yelled as bright light and the roar of jet propulsion came in above them. Clint twisted around, bow drawn, but he aborted the movement when he saw Tony level out in the air and drop to the ground with a heavy thud, the concrete cracking beneath him.

“Relax Birdman, it’s me,” Tony said, ignoring their momentary shock at his impromptu entrance.

“Stark!” Steve called out. The concern and alarm was evident in his voice.“What are you doing here? Are they advancing this way?”

“No, Banner got the idea and joined the party. Thor and the big guy have got it for now, and if you haven’t noticed, shit started exploding and the comms crapped out, so I’m just, checking you’re all still alive,” he explained, his tone flippant enough to make Clint, in a flood of irrational and ill-directed anger, want to punch him square in the face, metal mask be damned.

No one responded to that, but the downcast _looks_ he picked up on, and the unbridled _rage_ Clint made no attempt to hide, had him pausing, turning his head to look back and forth between the three of them. “Where’s Romanoff?”

A strangled, pained sound escaped from the back of Clint’s throat. He turned away sharply and focused his attention on sending his nocked arrow into a huddle of approaching agents, through the narrow gap, and watching the resulting explosion with a twisted, vengeful sense of glee.

“MIA,” Sam responded tersely.

Stark leveled a gauntlet at agents firing on them from across the courtyard, repulsor blast beaming out. The seriousness of the situation obvious, he dropped the sarcastic tone “Since?”

“Second explosion.”

He paused. “Fuck.”

“ _Now_ he gets it,” Clint snapped, biting back anything else. They didn’t have time for this; it wouldn’t get them anywhere.

Steve wasted no time however, already formulating a new plan. “As long as we’re pinned down here, we can’t do much. Iron Man, if you can draw their fire, help Falcon contain them and cover us while we make for the opening,” he said, motioning to Clint and himself and then pointing toward the new charred entryway in the north building.

“Hold on, are we sure it’s stable?” Tony interjected, repulsors whining again as he primed them. “Or that it won’t, I don’t know, _explode_ _again_?” Clint sent a bone chilling glare his way. If he’d had his way, he’d already be in there with her, or he’d at least be doing something to get there. “We’re in the dark here. We can’t make any assumptions,” Stark said by way of explanation, as if it helped.

“Okay,” Steve acknowledged, “fair.” He collected his thoughts.

“What? Seriously?” Sam blurted out incredulously, sounding bitter and confused and not entirely happy with the new, ‘well, let’s wait and see and talk about it’ approach.

“Yes,” Steve snapped, unmoving. “We aren’t risking any m-”

 _Fine_ . Clint forced himself to physically restrain from any more outbursts. _Alright, break it down. Focus, breathe, what are we dealing with._

“We risk fuck-all every goddamn day!” Sam yelled. “We don’t have time-”

“Shut up!” Clint yelled, voice rough, and he looked angrier than Steve had ever seen him. “Whatever did that wasn’t plastic based- not RDX or C-4 or Semtex. Too much fire. But it died in minutes. So not gas, napalm, natural compounds. Makes it chemical. Nitroglycerin, penthrite, or something similar.”

He had blown shit up and been blown up too many times, okay? He wasn’t apologizing for an oddly extensive knowledge of explosives now.

“AIM blew up their own facility? And their own guys?” Sam asked, not having given the cause of the explosion much thought in the chaos.

“Well _I_ didn’t do it. Did you?” Clint bit the inside of his cheek sharply, breathing hard. His knuckles were going white from the pressure of his grip on the riser of his bow. Crouching where he was, every muscle in him was twitching, adrenaline-fueled energy still buzzing through him. He _needed_ to move. Every minute that dragged by was another minute too long.

“We were probably the targets, Falcon.” Steve looked back to Clint. “What does that mean for us?” he asked.

Stark had a distant look on his face, still thinking when he answered for him. “Means it’s stable,” he acknowledged, though beyond that Clint couldn’t get any read on him through the impassive Iron Man suit, facemask down.

Clint inhaled slowly, still low on patience and rife with tension, but Stark was coming over to his side of things now, which counted for something. “And no delicate electronics in a timed detonator,” he continued, struggling to calm the many impulses and voices in his head and the ignore the external chaos, “and certainly not any mercury or tremble switches that rely on pressure, would survive either of those shockwaves.”

“So we won’t be blown to hell if we go in?” Steve asked.

Tony cut in unexpectedly, given it was he who raised this cautious line of questioning. He sounded a lot more confident in the decision to move in, wich was great, because Clint was having a difficult time stomping down the growing urge to commit violence. “So if you see someone try to kamikaze themself and detonate something, stop them. A manual trigger would be required for any further ‘blowing us to hell’.”

“Can we fucking go now?” Clint asked, sarcastic and clearly very much done with debating the semantics. His fucking partner was in there and if the waited one more goddamn second before he could go get to her he was going to do something drastic that Cap wouldn’t see coming this time. Perhaps that line of thinking showed on his face.

It wasn’t like they had many options. They weren’t ones to hold themselves back from a little risk taking, as Sam had so helpfully pointed out, especially not when one of them was in trouble. Yes, the explosions were deadly and they were unpredictable, and yes Clint would later realize there was sense in not charging right into what could be a rather explosive and deadly trap, but Clint didn’t really give a fuck. And the others… they saw the recklessness, the steel glint in his eye that spoke to that fact that he would not be deterred. They either went _with_ him, _now_ , or he would face down a firing squad by himself, and he wouldn’t let it or any of them stop him.

Not from getting to her.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Normally in these circumstances, Clint- and all of them- tried to minimize the damage. All use of force was directed at incapacitating the threat long enough to keep themselves safe, evacuate innocents, and complete the mission. Typically that meant putting an arrow or a bullet in someone’s kneecap before someone’s eye socket, and Clint was usually fine with that. It was prefered actually, for obvious reasons. Bad guys or not, no one enjoyed killing anyone, especially when said bad guys were human beings instead of aliens or whatever, and they were just on the wrong side. It still happened though. That was the reality of quick paced, high risk, unpredictable combat scenarios. But it was never the goal.

That being said, Clint didn’t really give one singular flying fuck right about now. And nothing about their current situation was ‘normal’, ‘typical’, or ‘usual’ in any way.

The risk factor was elevated, the urgency tenfold, and team members’ lives were at stake. What’s more, these people had chosen their side. They worked for AIM. In Clint’s mind, they got what was coming to them.  At least, that’s how he would justify it later, when he had time to recall that he _did_ have moral scruples as well as consequence and damage assessment related sensibilities.

In the present moment however, muscle memory and combat instincts had dibs on all mental faculties- before processing moral ambiguities, before paying heed to pain receptors, before considering self-preservation- all in the interest of getting from point A to point B. And nothing in his way was stopping him.

He was ruthlessly, if not scarily, efficient.

With a particularly vicious wrench, he felt bones and tendons pop. The body went still. He let it drop to the floor, but it was already behind him as he ran forward through the smoke. He was present enough to note he _was_ glad the noise of combat and destruction around him was loud enough to drown out the sound of it.

Rogers and Wilson were tackling problem areas to his immediate left and right with Stark in the air above them. That left him on point as they cut diagonally through the mess toward the north building. He was just fine with that.

He felt more than he heard or saw movement to his three o’clock. He dropped to a knee and loosed an arrow on an upward trajectory into the soft tissue of the throat of the agent whose head was already tilted back, looking up and lifting a gun to aim at Stark above. The arrow wasn’t special at all, not that it mattered. The agent collapsed without a sound.

He moved on, running, keeping low to the ground and close to cover. They were cutting across the wreckage, keeping the majority of AIM agents out of their direct path, and making for the doorway into the north building the Hulk had created. It was on the far side of the explosion. It was also where Natasha had reported her location last contact.

He dove as three of them pointed guns his way, skidding across loose rubble boots first behind a toppled concrete pillar and veritable mountain of building debris before returning fire.

He heard Rogers yelling to his left. There were more of them approaching. Stark was forced to the ground by the hail of bullets and plasma sent his way. There was a solid ten meters between where Clint crouched and where Rogers, Wilson, and Stark were momentarily pinned. But Clint, a smaller lone target hidden in the smoke and shadows, his weaponry wilent, was unhindered. He now knelt at the top of the crater in the ground into which the edge of the north building was crumbling. He was only two or three meters from where the facade of the building once stood.

He threw a look back at the others, and in that moment Steve caught his eye. It wasn’t more than a second, just the span of a few breaths being all the time they could afford. It was a silent moment, eye contact, a _look_ , and they both knew. Steve nodded, and signed one simple command visible in the red light of the alarms. ‘Go.’

Clint nodded as much in acknowledgement as it was in thanks. Spinning, he dropped from sight into the cavity in the the rock.

Disturbed rock and dust tumbling with him, he slid down the side with one forearm braced to keep him steady and the other hand wielding his bow until his feet hit the bottom a few seconds later. He wasted no time in sprinting over the loose rubble the few meters to the other side, using his momentum and the largest and most stable-looking chunks of concrete and pieces of building to leap and climb up the other side. The last thing he wanted was to be caught down there by gunfire from above. Scrambling over the lip of the basin and vaulting over a shallow wall of rubble, he disappeared into the cavernous, shattered mouth of the building.

He vanished into the shadows just as he had seen Natasha do not even fifteen minutes before.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The chaos of the open battlefield, the noise of explosions, gunfire, yelling and screaming; the constant high speed, the constantly racing pulse and heaving breath, fast paced series of running and diving for cover; the paranoia, the looking a hundred different directions for ninety-nine distractions and the one threat that would actually kill while dodging a hundred bullets only to step over the metaphorical landmine in a place metaphor had no right and certainly no time to be; all of it disappeared as he crept and crawled deeper through the jungle of the halfway collapsing building.

What had once been halls and rooms- with no telling what they held- were caved in at least partly if not made entirely untraversable, walls blown out, floors strewn with massive chunks of concrete rubble. Lights flickered, distant pipes rumbled their discontent, and metal shrieked an echoing tune that reverberated through the cavernous expanse. Twisted and wrent metal rebar and support beams protruded from the wreckage, with live wires hanging in the air, snapping and sparking in the red haze of dust and lingering smoke and the darkness of night.

And there were bodies. At least a few. Some more buried than others. Some showing more signs of being caught in the explosion than others. He didn’t count them.

It was eerily quiet inside this wasteland in the same way it was quiet inside the eye of a hurricane. The fighting was distant, echoing and fading in and out all around him, and the din of the settling building was equally intangible, distant, out of sight, and yet pressing and uncomfortable. His own heartbeat, still racing as he channeled the adrenaline and the panic into action rather than being able to calm it completely, became the loudest thing in his ears. Isolated, suddenly alone and concealed by a mere few steps inside, he stopped.

He didn’t know how she, how anyone, could... He didn’t know how Natasha could have gotten out of this one. He wanted nothing more than to call out to her, to yell her name and pray to every and any deity listening that she hear him, that she let him know where she is. But she wouldn’t be the only one listening. If she heard at all. And he was alone now. There was no one watching his six.

And so, he listened. Crouching down in the dust and shadows, eyes screwed shut, and frozen in place, he strained to listen, to block out the far away clashing of titans and gods, to ignore the quiet complaints of the destruction around him. And, fucked as that particular sense of his was… it seemed like… yes. There was fighting coming from the inside too. Deeper inside.

Gunshots and weapons firing, shouting maybe, all echoing off stone, muted and filtered through the debris and clogged air and the distance, but it was there, and it wasn’t coming from the battle raging outside.

Hope burned deep in his chest, seizing in his throat and feeling like electricity shooting through every nerve. He lept up and into action once more, scrambling and scaling over the rubble, ducking wires and twisted metal, using every crawl space, every tunnel in the debris, every clear patch of ground which became more and more frequent the further in he went until he stepped through a doorway and found himself inside an area with something more closely resembling architectural integrity.

But just as soon as he had isolated it, the sound began to fade. Cursing, he pushed himself faster, hardly noticing the torn skin on his hands and knuckles as he shoved debris aside, stumbling as much as he was catching his balance, and just about throwing caution to the wind. Stealth required a more time and more attention to detail than he could afford right now.

The hallways were wide, the ceilings tall. Clint wasn’t really sure what this central building was for, given that he had only seen indecipherable wreckage and hallways, but the bits he had seen resembled a few bomb shelters he’d been in before. It was rather Soviet actually. There was too much concrete and cinder block, the doors were all heavy and metal, it had a lot of support pillars, and everything was predictable like it was laid out on a grid.

And there, stumbling over a patch of loose rubble into a new hallway in an area where the too-bright florescent lights were actually functional, he slid to a stop, quickly sidestepping into an empty doorway. His chest heaved as he took the moment to catch his breath and force the panicked energy down. Up ahead, some fifteen meters down the hallway lined with similar doors (which was only obstructed by a few partial cave-ins and pillar collapses), there was a fork splitting left and right.

Amassing and peering around the far corner, Clint counted five armed AIM security personnel, two more lying still on the ground in a pool of red. They mostly appeared to be waiting, huddled together, occasionally peering around the corner. Clint watched two more run into the hall to join them from another doorway halfway down the hall, the double doors propped open into what looked to be a staircase. One of them was listening to a radio in hand.

He began forming a tentative-at-best-suicidal-at-worst plan which essentially involved moving very quickly and dispatching these AIM agents before they killed him. And yeah, he was gonna do it. Why? Because Natasha had to be behind that corner. She had to be. And she had to be alive and fighting. It was the only explanation he was willing to consider.

He reached over his shoulder to get a feel for his arrow count. It wasn’t great. He’d already depleted the extra quiver hanging at his belt and abandoned it in the rubble because it kept catching on things he was trying to climb over or crawl through. At his back, he had about a half dozen explosive arrows (which he wasn’t about to use in a confined space like this), two cable arrows left (not useful), he found an EMP that he hadn’t used yet (and that he wasn’t going to use given it made their weapons explode way too impressively, and from there he’d refer back to the confined spaces and explosions comment), a couple net arrows he had yet to use (...eh), and a solid dozen regular ol’ pointy arrows.

But come on, it wasn’t like he packed for a party. That didn’t require anything too flashy. It wasn’t like he thought ‘hey, a boomerang arrow would be really helpful right now’. With all due respect to the boomerang arrow, it wouldn’t.

He also had a gun in his side holster, two throwing blades in the back of his belt, and a heftier combat knife strapped to the outside of his thigh and another in his boot of course. And he would use them if necessary, which it was probably going to be given he was on his own in close quarters with multiple combatants who would try to kill him as soon as they knew he was there. But, thing was, he just didn’t care for knives. Too personal, too messy, too violent in the way it was an in-your-face kind of personal and messy that got all over your hands and down the front of your shirt. He also didn’t like guns. They were too impersonal in exactly the opposite way. It was too easy, required too little, felt too accidental in a consequences-be-damned kind of way. An arrow though… An arrow said ‘here, take this you son of a bitch, from me to you, with love’.

Drawing an arrow, he inhaled slowly, chose his target- the AIM agent with a radio in hand standing at the back of the pack- and let it loose. Yes, he _was_ feeling particularly vindictive and violent in all the worst ways he would come to regret, but he also got to thinking- _really_ believing _-_ that Natasha was okay. Also, these agents had their backs to him, and hadn’t even pointed a gun or one of those stupid glowy blaster things at him yet. Currently experiencing a violent streak or not, Clint wasn’t a fan of sneaking up on people and shooting them in the back.

So as the arrow hit its target- back of the shoulder, definitely crippling and with a lot of PT in the future _if_ she decided to lay down and focus on stopping herself from bleeding to death instead of trying to shoot him with the other arm- he took off down the hallway straight for them.

He got off another shot which sent another agent to the ground before the other five realized what was happening and spun around, guns blazing with a blue glow. _Aww, shit._ With no time to slow down, he came sliding to an immediate stop by slamming shoulder-first into one of those helpful concrete pillars placed at intervals down the hallway. Wincing, he froze and pulled his limbs in tight as he felt the concrete vibrate with the impacts and saw blurs of glowing blue hiss past him, splattering on the walls behind him as the agents unleashed a hail of murderous balls of energy in his general direction. He was okay where he was though. They all had a great aim like that.

Oh, that was a pun.

He waited with an arrow drawn, counting slowly with measured breaths.

_Wait… wait…_

Another one of those little things he learned while becoming uncomfortably, intimately familiar with these goddamn melt-your-face-off weapons was that there was a reloading or recharging or rebooting or cooling or _something_ they needed to do to probably not explode. And just when he thought the torrent of plasma would bring the pillar down, it waned suddenly until it became manageable.

 _Now_.

With a quiet half-assed hope and a prayer, he dove toward the stairway doors on his right, dropping into a roll over his shoulder as he felt the searing heat and the quivering pulse in the air around him. He sprang to his feet and pressed his back against the wall, leaning around it just far enough to release two net arrows at once.

He heard the muffled sound of the nets activating, followed by cursing and crashing sounds and for a few seconds he was in the clear. He spun around the smouldering cinder block corner, pushing through the burning pain in his muscles, ignoring the throbbing of the deeps cuts and developing bruises from his tumble through a window and into a building collapse, breath ragged, but he pushed himself harder at a full tilt sprint to close the distance before the AIM agents struggling to throw the tangle of netting off of themselves succeeded.

The first agent- unfortunately a guy who definitely hit the gym more often than Clint did even if he was sort of vertically challenged- lifted his plasma-modified assault rifle. Clint dropped into a sliding tackle, taking his legs out from under him, and he crashed to the floor. Clint dropped his bow to grapple more effectively with the guy. He kicked his gun away, but was rewarded with a painful knee to his ribcage and elbow across his jaw, followed in quick succession by another, harder knee to his already bruised ribs. And that really fucking hurt. It made trying to heave in oxygen he felt he so desperately needed even worse.

As the next nearest two similarly broke free and drew guns on him, Clint grabbed his assailant (already half on top of him) by the collar of his uniform and rolled onto his back, dragging the guy over him as a human shield just in time for the next volley to come his way. Clint winced as he flailed before he went still, the other agents ceasing fire. It was the sound that made him want to vomit more than anything. No time for that though. Everything that followed seemed to happen in the span of a heartbeat.

Clint struggled to his knees and shoved his victim at the other two, throwing them off balance. Stumbling to his feet, Clint wasted no time in launching himself into the fray. What had started as a gunfight he was ill-prepared for had devolved into a flailing mess of hand-to-hand combat, and small sharp blades were being drawn all around.

With a well placed kick he had disarmed the nearest way too big and way too not-exhausted-like-Clint-felt guy. He was about to land a blow, but Clint had to suddenly duck the swing of a knife at his head from the woman adjacent him. On the back swing however, Clint leaned back but just a touch too slow, and he felt the blade slice across his uniform. The body armor did its job mostly, but it caught at his collar. The end of the blade’s arc had it slicing across the side of his exposed throat just as he twisted away from it, not deep enough or high enough to be immediately dangerous, but painful, and it bled, and dangerous nonetheless. Hissing in pain, Clint blocked her knife wielding arm with his forearm, catching her wrist with his other hand, and wrenched it to the side with a vicious twist, hearing a snap followed by a cry of pain. Her blade clattered to the ground.

Clint slammed her bodily into a concrete pillar, the side of her head connecting with a sickening thud, and the agent slumped to the ground. As he turned around to see the other two free of their restraints and the agent he had disarmed already lunging at him.

The guy barreled into him with a shoulder. _What was this- amateur hour?_ It would have sent Clint stumbling back further than he did before he caught his balance if the agent hadn’t latched onto the strap or his quiver with one hand and attempted to yank him forward into the blade- _oh shit okay_ \-  he sent plunging up into Clint’s abdomen. It would have likely skewered him a little bit had Clint not hastily- albeit clumsily due to the exhaustion weighing him down and the throbbing pain he felt everywhere that moved- blocked the maneuver with his forearm. As the guy pulled back, Clint grimaced as he felt the edge of the blade slice deeply through the upper inside of his forearm. He immediately felt blood- warm and slick- running down his arm.

Clint retaliated by kneeing him hard in the gut to throw him back, grabbing his wrist, and thrusting the guy’s own already upward angled blade which he clutched firmly in hand into his chest. A shocked look crossed his face, eyes bulging and open mouthed as a silent rush of air escaped him. Clint shoved him back as he collapsed to the ground, and adopting a defensive stance, faced off with the last two.

They were more cautious to charge right in after the flurry of violence which had transpired that left three more of their colleagues on the ground, some of them groaning quietly, others quite still. Clint breathed deeply, stabilizing himself. He could feel blood pooling around his collar, smeared across his throat and his jaw in the tussle and running down the front of his suit. The concrete dust and soot particles clung to his blood and sweat soaked tactical gear and skin. He slowly drew his combat knife from its sheath at his side as they circled slowly. Clint’s grip was slick due to the rivulets of blood running down his forearm, coating his hand and dripping from his fingertips. He transferred the blade to his left hand, flipping its handle over with a flick of his wrist. He turned it a few times more, testing his grip.

He didn’t think the bleeding was going to let up anytime soon, not that he could do a damn thing about it. He knew it felt like it was bleeding too much, but h couldn’t even appraise his injuries properly, not while his eyes were locked on the last two obstacles between himself and his partner. He saw the flicker of fear in their eyes, the hesitation, the uncertainty. _Best use it_.

He cleared his throat. “You could just, surrender, you know,” he proffered with a slight shrug, not without sarcasm and a heavily mocking tone like it was a revolutionary idea. Like it wasn’t the simplest thing in the world.

And the one of them had the audacity to sneer at him disdainfully, the other’s face darkening with a frown. “Right,” Mr. Disdain laughed, failing to mask the stain of fear on his voice and the caged animal look in his eyes.

“Yeah, crazy thought, I know,” Clint deadpanned. “Crazier yet I’d actually have’ta accept it. Something about the Geneva Convention… but mostly because Captain America would be disappointed if I didn’t.”

He sized them up, both for their intentions and for the decisions he might have to make should they rule against lying their weapons down. He had high hopes for the guy who was standing further back, looking for all the world like he wanted nothing more than to edge out of the conflict. The other one though, well, Clint’s doubts about him were confirmed when he broke the rules of the mexican standoff. He made a sudden move. His hand went for the gun.

As the agent’s hand barely reached his side holster, the hand Clint had been slowly drawing in while distracting with the menacing knife flips in the other darted to the back of his own belt. In one fluid motion, he flung his arm out and released the thin blade into the air, nothing but a flash of silver. An instant later, the handle of the blade seemed to sprout from the man’s throat. With a faint gurgle and a look of surprise, he stumbled forward, looking down with wide eyes at his hands coming away from his neck stained crimson, and collapsed.

And then there was one.

The look on Clint’s face when he met his now panicked gaze was a blunt one. It didn’t promise niceties just because he was an Avenger- one of the good guys. Yes, being around people like Captain America 24/7, with his intense good ‘ol boys attitude and unrealistically rose tinted ideologies, tended to bring out the best in people. It tended to make them want to _be_ their best. But Captain America wasn’t there. No one was there, except himself, the one person he cared about most in this life and the next who needed his help just around the corner, and this guy, this AIM agent, this kid, now that Clint looked at him with an eye for anything other than defensive weaknesses, who stood in his way.

Clint Barton had been a lot of things in his life. He’d worn too many names and identities. Good, bad, and a long time as something in between. The white hat was just his most recent costume change.

Perhaps it was the cool anger and the apathy driven by his single-minded purpose clearly reflected on his face that made the guy blanch, cold dread on his pale face. Maybe it was that, or maybe it was just reason and a will to live that made him drop his handgun, hands shaking as he unbuckled the clip of his belt and let it and his assortment of other holstered weapons drop to the floor. Either way, he raised his bare hands, palms outward in surrender.

Clint reached for the pouch at the side of his belt, ignoring the guy’s hard flinch, and threw a handful of zip ties at him. “I don’t have time for you. Buckle up, buttercup. Wrists and ankles.  Them too,” he ordered, motioning to the guy’s still groaning, slowly shifting comrades on the ground. He nodded, in a daze or in shock or just out of it.

Clint stepped forward over the tangle of limbs and netting on the floor, kicking guns and the radio far down the hall. He grabbed one of their plasma assault rifles and jogged back to the stairwell, glancing up to check no further hindrances were coming (judging from the noise he was hearing from outside they were elsewhere distracted) before hauling the heavy metal doors closed. He slotted the barrel and stock of the weapon through the handles on either side, effectively barring the doors. And hey, if anyone really felt like forcing them open, it would probably blow up in their face.

He ran back to the fork in the hallway, pausing before he turned sharply on the surrendered agent. “Where is she,” he demanded, deadly cold tone leaving no room for misinterpretation.

The look he got in response was blank. The agent just lifted his hand and pointed. Right.

Clint turned, and ignoring the mess, ignoring all of the red on the ground and on the bodies and splattered on the walls and on his own hands, he picked up his bow and he left. He left it behind him.

Clint set off at a fast pace- as fast as he could manage- his muscles and lungs and lacerations still screaming, and the damage he saw around him got worse. The next turn in the hallway took him nearer the epicenter of the explosion. Walls and ceilings were exposed in a rift through multiple floors, everything blown out or disintegrated. Everything was covered in a fine layer of ash and scarred by fire scorched and blackened rubble. Debris lay all around, collapsed walls and the caved in floor above creating a cavern, large boulders and shattered slabs of concrete in every direction, metal pipes and support structures snapped and bent, sticking out of the wreckage.

He picked his way through, stumbling to a halt after coming across the body of another AIM agent lying quite dead on the ground. _Gunshot_ , he determined with a glance.

 _Damnit_ . “Natasha!” he yelled through the wreckage, turning in place, his lungs heaving, wounds aching, his head beginning to spin. He called out to her again. His throat was ragged, his voice raw. He didn’t care if it would give away his location. He doubted there were any other agents around. The panic was rising again in his chest. Regardless, he didn’t care. “ _Natasha!_ ”

“I almost shot you,” came a quiet, strained voice from off to his left. He whirled around, eyes scouring through the grey and black, red and flickering bright florescent light tinged landscape. But he knew that voice. He knew that voice, and his heart was soaring in his chest and he was running, leaping over a mess of pulverized cinderblock and ducking under a partially fallen metal I-beam and _fuck…_

He dropped his bow aside, let it fall to the ground. He fell to his knees beside her. His limbs felt like lead, and he was sure he would never be able to rise again.

“ _Tasha_ …” His voice broke. He reached for her, but stopped short, hesitant to touch her.

She had propped herself up against a slab of concrete halfway buried and protruding from the wreckage. She was breathing, shallow but steady. Blood was smeared over one eye and down the side of her face, a nasty abrasion at her temple still bleeding. She was covered in soot, dust and grit, the black of her combat uniform refusing to betray just how much blood there was. She clutched a handgun to her chest, another discarded beside her with a few empty clips of ammunition. She was mostly okay though- he made sure. But something was off. She was too stiff, held her arms in too closely, she was just… She was just halfway curled up there on the ground.

“You really shouldn’t be yelling like that,” she insisted, voice even but faint. She blinked, focusing her eyes on his.

“Tasha,” he breathed out again. “I was- I thought-” he tried, shaking his head viciously. His throat constricted, his eyes were too hot, and he just shut his mouth. He couldn’t force anything else out without falling apart. He was already shaking to pieces.

A heartbeat passed, a silent pause, and with the sort of inopportune timing to crack a half-hearted joke she could only have picked up from him, she simply cocked her head to the side and said, “You look awful.” A faint smile brushed the corners of her mouth, and she eased back slightly, some of the tension bleeding away.

He laughed, humorless and dry and out of nothing but relief so intense and sudden and unexpected that he thought he might cry or possibly overdose on the endorphins and adrenaline flooding his system or both. “Fuck you,” he choked out past his the lump in his throat, vocal cords uncooperative.

She noticed a stupid smile still managed to light up his face despite the blood and ashes smeared across it. Leaning over her, he cradled her face with both hands, foreheads pressed together and eyes closed. That moment stretched on, full of nothing quiet panting breathes and emotions running so high they were almost tangible in the air in that narrow space between them.

“Clint…”

He pulled back mere inches to meet her gaze. The relief, the raw emotion in her tone was palpable, as was the genuine look of- of that _expression_ on her face.

“Hey, don’t mention it. It’s what I’m here for,” he said with a weak smile. “I’m gonna get you out of here.”

She frowned at him, cleft forming between her brows. “I’m not some damsel in distress,” she said, somehow, god bless her, managing to be indignant. “Didn’t need saving.”

“Natasha Romanoff,” he said, earnest, like the most important thing in the world was for her to _believe_ him, and still utterly and completely, entirely gone for her. He whispered, voice choked with emotion, “I have _never_ , _once_ in my entire life since you first kicked my ass thought of you like that, and you _know it_.”

“Yeah,” she sighed, the corner of her mouth twitching up. “I know.”

And then he pulled her close, held her tight, and she wrapped her arms around him. She hid her face in his shoulder. His breath was hot and ragged, his shoulders rising and quaking irregularly with it. “Fuck, Tasha,” he shook his head. “I thought-” His words caught in his throat. “Are you okay?”

“I know,” she whispered back more quietly this time. “I’m okay. You however…” She looked him up and down. “You _do_ look awful. Блядь, what happened to you?” She paused, noting the myriad of cuts and scrapes from glass and hauling himself through debris, the deeper ones no doubt in need of stitches, the fresh bruises, the blood wiped across his throat and running down his chest and his forearm unhindered, the way he carried one arm close to his ribs- bruised or broken beneath.

“No,” he shook his head, ignoring the fact that doing so made the throbbing that had started up in the back of his skull worse. In this rare instance, he actually knew he was lying about it. “I’m good, I’m good.”

“Bullshit,” she declared.  “I’m calling bullshit on that one.”

“Whatever. You sure that you’re okay?” He pulled back and couldn’t help but give her a glance once over again.

“Yeah,” she said shakily, nodding. “I’ll get there.”

“No, that’s my line,” he corrected. “And then you say ‘getting there and being there aren’t the same things’.” He frowned, dropping his head. “Fuck, it’s supposed to be _me_ that gets into shit like this.”

“I’m fine,” she promised, patting his shoulder, resting her forehead against his chest. “I’m just… in a shockingly unbelievable amount of pain right now.”

“Natasha!” he blurted out, rearing back from her with a look of shock and dismay and abject horror, suddenly holding her as if she were made of fractured glass and could shatter at any moment.

“No, it’s okay,” she reassured him. He hadn’t hurt her. “I really do think I might be in shock though,” she said on the ghost of a laugh, but Clint just looked even more alarmed if that was possible. “Um, my ankle, and lower leg, right side,” she said, directing his probing gaze, not that there was much to see through her boot and tactical suit. “A beam fell when everything was still settling after the first explosion,” she said, indicating to the metal I-beam lying across the rubble, one end elevated, the other slanted down and buried.

Quickly throwing his bow over his back, the string across his chest, Clint was already scooping her up, lifting her out of the rubble, ignoring his protesting muscles and trying with everything he had left to walk smoothly, without jostling her in the least, down the slope of debris and to a clear patch, nestled away in a corner and hidden from sight.

“I didn’t get _completely_ clear,” she confessed as he lowered her ever so gently to the ground, her emphasis on ‘completely’ like she had been so close, and her failure just irritated her. “I dug myself out but… “

“But you can’t walk on it,” Clint finished with a seriousness she never associated with him.It was then that the puzzle pieces were coming together for Clint. He was able to place her steadiness, her calm demeanor, the stiffness in her posture and the guarded way in which she had cured in on herself tightly. She was in pain, and putting everything she had left into controlling it, channeling it, putting it out of her mind. And she was most definitely in shock.

She took a measured breath. “Oh no, I can walk on it. I did. Had to, when the trouble started,” she said, a pained sound escaping the back of her throat and her hands curling tightly into fists as Clint slowly and with all the delicacy of handling a fragile baby bird straightened her leg. Every tiny bit of movement sent searing white hot pain lancing up her leg and into her very core. Her jaw clenched tight, eyes screwed shut as she strained against it, she let her head fall back against the wall she sat against.

Clint knew it was very, very bad almost immediately. He _felt_ bones shifting where they shouldn’t. There his heartrate went skyrocketing again, adrenaline he was sure he must’ve run out of flooding his system as fight or flight instincts forced their way into his head. _Fuck_ , he wanted nothing more than to scoop her up again and get her out of there. Everything hurt, the thought that the lightness and the throbbing in his head might be from the continued blood loss _did_ cross his mind, but he could knew he could force himself to do it.

But fighting through the instinct and desperation and adrenaline driven voices in his head was the one rational part of him, the one that sounded like Natasha on any day but this one and a little like Phil Coulson. He took a deep breath, hands braced on his knees as she knelt beside her. _In, out, just breath, calm down, think about this._

  
He forced himself to get a grip and to return to the present moment, the risk-assessment, the tactical advantages and disadvantages, the evaluation of their current position all running through his head, but no matter how he tried, he couldn’t quite get it to stay in the forefront of his mind. He couldn’t displace her, what he felt _for_ and _about_ her: the concern, the relief, the fear and the joy and the paralyzing panic that threatened to consume him, all the realest and most terrifying he had ever felt.

He knew a few things for certain. First, crush injuries like her’s were really, very bad. Natasha needed medical attention he couldn’t provide her in the field ASAP. Second, she was in shock. Her skin was pale, cool, her pulse rapid, her breathing quick and shallow. He needed to get her out of there. But thirdly, he needed to keep his wits about him if he was going to get them both out of this alive.

They were out of the way, but still exposed in their current position. It wasn’t secure. Plus, Natasha didn’t have time to wait around for an evac that neither of them had no working comms to request one with, or even to call for backup. So they needed to get moving. He needed to move them. But they’d be slow, and he couldn’t imaging getting her out the way he came in- not with all the wreckage he had traversed and dug through and climbed over.

He sighed heavily. She shifted, pulling him closer. He went willingly, wrapping his arms around her tightly and resting his chin on her head as she ducked her face into his shoulder. “Okay,” he said, his breathing steadying. “Okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you-”

“Barton,” she said, voice muffled but unmistakably a warning. “Shut up.”

“Okay,” he said, only partly fighting off a smile that tugged at his mouth. “Okay.” He paused a moment, just a moment. Fuck, if only he could just… just pretend it all didn’t exist, let everything melt away, let it just be them.

“Clint?” she asked, quiet and a little shaky as she pulled away to look at him.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For-” she swallowed, her eyes flicking away “-for coming to get me.”

He exhaled heavily through his nose, his hand going up to delicately cup her face.  “Don’t ever thank me for that. I’ve got your back, okay? Always,” he promised, his hand moving to slide through her hair and pull her back against his chest.

She mumbled something unintelligible against him, nodding faintly.

He forced in another breath, feeling dizzy. “But don’t thank me yet, Nat,” he said, steeling himself. “Don’t thank me yet.”

She pulled back slightly, looking at him with confusion. “What?”

He shifted his hold on her, one arm hooking under her knees, the other around her shoulders. “This is gonna hurt. I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m sorry,” he breathed out against her hair, wincing and biting his lower lip hard against the pain that echoed dully through him as he struggled to lift her as he shakily rose to his feet.

Natasha bit back an outcry of her own, sharp and brittle. She grabbed onto a strap across the front of his chest, knuckles going white from the pressure of her grip. Her other arm went around his shoulders. She was trembling faintly, jaw clenched tightly to prevent any sounds escaping while she attempted to recompose herself, her head ducked against him. And that hurt more than anything else by that point.

“Fuck, Tasha, I’m sorry,” he panted, walking as quickly as he could manage along a narrow stip of floor around the pile of rubble from the ceiling cave-in in the middle of the room.

Quickly glancing around the corner and finding the hallway clear, he continued down it, heading away from the carnage he had trailed behind him. They moved parallel to the face of the building as Clint hoped to avoid the worst of the wreckage and find an exit on the far side.

Clint took it a few steps at a time, focusing on breathing to hold the faint dizziness and the fuzzy darkness clinging to the periphery of his vision at bay. The pain all around had faded and synchronized itself to a dull throbbing that didn’t lend itself well to the heaviness he felt dragging down every limb. And, in shock or not, Natasha didn’t fail to notice that he was struggling.

She shifted in his hold, throwing both arms around his neck and holding tight- holding herself up as much as she could to easing his burden- as she took to watching over his shoulder, eyes flickering in every direction. They still weren’t out of the woods yet.

They made it down that hallway, which was followed by a turn and another short strip after that, and then they were cutting through a room- a laboratory or something- and continuing on their eastern trajectory. _Another few steps. Surely not that much farther._ While avoiding a smashed desk, Clint completely missed a slight downward step in the doorway, already feeling slow and heavy and clumsy, and reeling a bit he fell back into the wall.

He caught himself hard against his shoulder, grunting in pain. Natasha hissed in pain as her leg was bumped, her grip tightening reflexively and Russian curses dropping from her mouth that Clint might have recognized if he could focus on something other than the painful throbbing that had now started up at the base of his skull.

“Sorry,” Clint panted. “M’sorry-”

“It’s okay,” she assured him. “Not your fault. I’m-” She froze. “Блядь.”

Clint barely registered what was happening when Natasha dropped a hand down to his hip, throwing him off balance once more as she began moving. A surprised grunt escaping his throat, he slid down the wall to one knee. He heard something behind him, but then he felt a tug at his side, and glancing down he was just fast enough to see Natasha yanking his gun free of his holster and slinging her arm up and around to aim, and fire. Twice in quick succession. He winced and jerked his head away from the deafening blasts, his ears ringing.

Braced against him, she had twisted and pulled herself head and shoulders above him, breathing more steadily as her focus zoomed entirely in on whatever was behind them. She had gone still, froze with her arm still extended, aim steady. But just as quickly as it had happened, it was over.

Ears and head still throbbing painfully, Clint slowly turned, sinking down and leaning back heavily until he was sitting down against the wall. He careful deposited Natasha next to him.

“Well, fuck,” he rasped. Two bodies- AIM uniforms- lay still at the other end of the hall.

“Sorry,” he thought he heard her say, but he wasn’t sure until she faced him to repeat it. His ears were still messed up from the gunshots in such close proximity; the blood rushing through his head in tandem with the general throbbing feeling was too loud.

“Nah, it’s cool. Nice shot,” he said between breaths, nodding his head toward the other end of the hall in acknowledgment. “Thanks.”

Natasha, almost ashen in color, patted his shoulder. A faint smile graced her lips before, bracing herself against the wall, she began to force herself up, hopping on one leg to gain her balance.

“Wha- no,” Clint snapped in surprise, reaching out to stop her. “Don’t-”

“Clint,” she said cautiously, giving him an almost warning look to not challenge her. She was trembling slightly at first, but mostly stable in what must have been either an impressive display of willpower or evidence that the pain must have started to go numb- and that little rational voice that was getting increasingly drowned out in the back of his head told him that wouldn’t technically, medically, be a good thing.

“Are you kidding me? You’re not walking-”

“I’ve got one good leg still, and Clint…” Her look was softer, sympathetic, more knowing. “You can’t. You’re gonna collapse at this rate. It’s okay,” she insisted, cutting him off before he could object. “Just, give me a shoulder,” she compromised, extending a hand. “I’ll be okay. We can do this.” She breathed out slowly. “Let’s just get out of here.”

Clint looked up at her, already standing on one leg and leaning against the wall. She still had his gun clutched tightly in hand and held close to her side, but despite that, with that _look_ she gave him- open and quite frankly scared- she looked vulnerable. He looked up at her blankly.

“Clint, please,” she said quietly. She was pale and faintly shaking, and definitely needed a shoulder to lean on to get anywhere, but even the thought of standing up made Clint grimace. “I need you.”

And fuck if he didn’t need her just as much. He nodded wordlessly, mouth dry. It felt like a herculean effort, using the wall to push himself up and find his balance. The pit of his stomach swooping low and the darkness creeping in around his vision, he got to his feet. Inhaling deeply, if unsteadily, and swiping the back of his forearm across his face to wipe the blood and sweat away, he felt the rush of oxygen hit him hard. The throbbing at the base of his skull subsided slightly, though for a moment he felt like his head was spinning.

An arm over each other’s shoulder, Clint and Natasha continued on toward the flickering bright light at the end of the hallway. It was easier, thankfully. It got easier. It was slow going, but there weren’t any more armed or explosive surprises.  

They were okay. They were going to be okay. It was going to be okay.

He actually started believing that too.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

They knew they were almost outside by the way the ground tremored every so often, accompanied by a muffled yet loud crashing sound as the lights would flicker and the doors would rattle in their frames. The door they reached around the next corner however made no such movement when the next vibration ran through the ground. Both it and its frame set within the solid concrete wall where heavy reinforced metal. There was a thick glass plate above the door latch- nothing more than a narrow rectangle crisscrossed with wire and clouded over on the other side.

Even though it wasn’t locked, it was even heavier and a greater (literal) pain to move than it looked. A fact Clint learned only when he had to put his shoulder into it in order to shove it open inch by grinding inch.

When they stumbled inside, the door swaying shut with a dull thud behind them, the blast of frigid air, cold enough to steal his breath away for a moment and raise goosebumps along his exposed skin, was the first thing Clint noticed. But that unpleasant input was only first by the barest margin.

The second thing he noticed was the cluster of people standing huddled around an illuminated glass column on a raised dais in the middle of the too-bright white room. Some sported AIM agent uniforms and carried weapons, others where in lab coats and appeared unarmed with a cursory glance, but all of them turned to stare (with _admittedly_ a bit of surprise) at him and Natasha as the door shut behind them. It made the first observation and just about all others quite irrelevant.

“Wow,” Clint blurted out, not even able to or caring to contain the thought, “this is _exactly_ my luck.”

The next thing he knew, the apparent shock due to their unexpected party crashing had worn off, because there was a flurry of movement and yelling he didn’t quite catch. Natasha shoved him hard in the ribs to the side, out of the doorway where drawn guns were being aimed and where they would surely be nothing but a grease stain on the tiles if they _didn’t move right fucking now_. His bow was already in hand and he was reaching for his quiver as Natasha caught her balance and raised the gun she had appropriated from his holster.

But what happened next was odd. He wouldn’t really be able to say what happened, or more accurately _why_ what should have happened _didn’t_ happen, until later, with some more thought and time for careful consideration and less guns being aimed at his face.

It wasn’t that he, or Natasha for that matter, hesitated. They didn’t, and wouldn’t, hesitate. So call it a feeling, an instinct born of experience with people drawing weapons on them, delivered by the grace of a millisecond to observe and to understand the look on the face of the guy on the other side of the gun barrel or the arrow shaft.

He was a hair’s breadth away. A hair’s breadth away from releasing the tension in the string and in his body and letting an arrow fly.

“ _Wait!_ ” Came a loud command which echoed slightly off the wall tiles, tone panicked in a way that came from urgency and a tinge of desperation. “Hold your fire!”

The silence was deafening. But in that split second of nothing but the sharp intake of held breath and the thudding of his own heart in his chest, Clint registered that he and his partner weren't actually a smudge of grease on the perfectly white glossy floor yet. That, despite being surprised and outnumbered and ill matched in their exhaustion and injuries, they were still standing, gun and bow held aloft at the four handguns- SIG pro semi automatic pistols (for once, a gun he recognized)- pointed their way by four uniformed AIM security personnel.

Beside the agents, there were three people in lab coats on the dias. Two were mostly cowering back behind their armed guards. The third lab coat wearing asshole however… aww fucking _fuck_ , man.

It was the same slightly older tall and dark and generic AIM super villain wannabe dude from the team’s first emergency call. The dude who led them right into a shitstorm. The guy who tied up some hundred hostages and sat them down on high grade explosives and used them to walk right out and take their Quinjet while they were at it. Fuck. Clint hated that guy.

The bitter resentment rose up inside him, gnawing at his insides and directing the tip of his drawn arrow directly between the fucker’s eyes. But he stayed his hand. He couldn’t very well take his eyes off the guns pointed their way for even a second in order to look over and gauge Natasha’s reaction to all this, but she didn’t immediately put any bullets in anyone’s face either.

And this… this was a proper standoff. Weapons raised, eyes locked, everyone frozen. Again, that little rational voice in his head that kept making surprise appearances told Clint that if anyone opened fire, no one would be walking away uninjured.

And this guy, this jackass who was apparently in charge of this little party they stumbled quite unwillingly across, was the only one moving as he shuffled slowly into center view. One of his black-gloved hands was up and out making slow, appeasing ‘for the love of god don’t shoot’ motions at his guys that went along nicely with the ‘slightly out of breath with anxiety’ expression. In his other hand, he held a glass cylinder protectively to his chest.

It was no larger than a football, with heavy metal rings at each end, and a faint swirling green-yellow glow. The whole thing just screamed sciency bullshit that Clint didn’t want any part of.

“Stand down,” he ordered his agents, waving them back. There was a hesitant shuffle among them, during which Clint leveled his arrow between the four agents and Public Enemy No. 1 as guns were lowered painfully slowly, and even then only half way.

Alright. This was… very odd. Odd in the sense that he had no clue what the fuck was happening. With no weapons trained directly at his head, he dared a glance over at Natasha, who in a testament to both her grace and steel managed to stand upright on her own even though the wall was their for support behind her, her weapon still raised, but he saw a hint of confusion on her face probably equal to his own there. Apparently, somehow, they held some sort of leverage here that they didn’t know about. And while that was great, it also really fucking sucked, because again, he had no freaking idea as to what was going on.

“This is _incredibly_ unstable,” Evil Dude was explaining, Clint realized, as he motioned to the cylinder- some sort of container- in his other arm. “And this room, for its storage, is highly oxygenated, and sealed.” Clint took a second glance at the foggy glass column in the middle of the platform, standing floor to ceiling with a slot open in the middle like it was some sort of tube, white misty tendrils pouring from the opening. “Should _anyone_ fire a gun in this room, it would very likely spark a flame and kill us all.”

Ah. Well. There was their leverage. Unfortunately, Clint also realized that, _if_ they were to believe this jackass, which was a big if, it might turn into a brawl. And while Clint felt confident in his ability to take down the lab coats should the need arise, he felt a little too much like even a hospital bed would be welcoming to have any desire to take on all of the others

“Seriously,” Natasha deadpanned, incredulous to say the least. Glancing sidelong at her, Clint saw the raised eyebrow and the unamused look and damn, she, Natasha Romanoff, even in shock and exhausted and in a shit ton of pain, was making fun of these people’s stupidity. Like she couldn’t even be bothered to deal with them right now.

Fucking hell he loved her.

His partner turned to glance at him, then as he followed her gaze to look at his bow and drawn arrow, before making eye contact again, he realized, oh. _Oh_.

He laughed. He couldn’t help it. Clint straighten to his full height with a probably halfway to manic grin, drawing the string back just a smidge further and shifting his aim right at the asshole standing center stage. All the bad guys and friends alike who ever made fun of his paleolithic weaponry could suck his-

That internal monologue stopped abruptly, replaced by warning bells. With his nothing special, not to be underestimated, pointy ol’ arrow directed their way, there was a ripple of recognition as his advantage dawned on the rest of them. It was followed by a surge of panic accompanied by their scrambling backward and reaching for combat knives in their belts.

At least these agents weren’t like the sentries and patrols with the crazy plasma spewing and sometimes exploding weaponry they’d run across outside. He really couldn’t take much more of that.

Their bossman interrupted before anyone could do anything rash that would result in bloodshed. “If I drop this,” he warned quickly, voice threatening this time with a sneering undertone, “At this concentration, the last few minutes of your lives will be painful ones.” Noting that neither of them had made a move, the four agents stilled again. This time though, Clint saw more uncertainty and fear encroaching on their features.

“If what’s in there is what I think it is, seems to me that would go for you too, buddy,” Clint returned cheerily, though a clear warning not to test him regardless.

“I assure you, it is,” he said firmly, face darkened by anger as if he for _some reason_ that Clint couldn’t figure out he didn’t like that the tables had turned drastically since their last encounter. It had become clear that he wasn’t nearly as in control as the dude obviously prefered.

Still, Clint wasn’t totally convinced of anything at this point. But apparently, Natasha had accepted that uncertainty, and was rolling with it. “Well, might be worth it” she began, her voice dangerously even with a slight predatory softness to it that made anyone uneasy. She turned her head a fraction to look at Clint, her voice sharper this time. “Kneecap him.”

“Wait!” he cried out again, stepping back hastily and partly behind one of his agents, who _definitely_ noticed he was being used as a meat shield and who _definitely_ didn’t take kindly to it, but who stood still nonetheless. “With the damage this building had sustained,” he said in a rush, “even if this room is still sealed, it won’t be long until the seal is compromised. And then, would you risk the lives of your fellow Avengers? Of everyone for miles around? And contaminate this area, for _years_?”

Clint exhaled slowly, intentionally, considering it. “Maybe I am,” he said bluntly, a hard edge to his voice. He looked hard and unyielding at the other man. “Or maybe you’re bluffing.”

“Seems awful convenient,” Natasha mused, cocking her head to the side thoughtfully.

“I don’t bluff,” he all but growled.

“Yeah, that’s what they all say. But I’m a pretty excellent poker player if I do say so myself,” Clint remarked. “And buddy, if we’re putting money down on it I’d bet you’re bluffing.”

Natasha snorted, annoyed. “Horrible,” she muttered. “You’ve really got to work on that.”

Turning his head only slightly her way, he raised an eyebrow at her, a faint smirk on his face. “What?” She did not look impressed. “Okay, fine. Fine,” Clint huffed. “Time to fold the cards?”

“Cringeworthy,” she said.

“Needs to work on his poker face?”

“Stop.”

“I could go on all day-”

“Please don’t.”

“Enough!” Apparently the AIM commander, whoever he was, didn’t care for their making light of the situation, or of him. “We are leaving, with the virus,” he said clearly, leaving no room for negotiation. “You will stay where you are. One move, and I break it. I don’t care if we all die.”

Clint felt like he’d just been bitchslapped with a serious case of deja vu.

The commander started backward with a half step, the other AIM scientists already scurrying back. The agents, now armed with nothing but small sharp blades, began to step back more slowly, eyes never leaving Clint and Natasha.

Clint guessed that the bit about the room being sealed and highly oxygenated and catching on fire and all might have had a grain of truth to it. Natasha must have figured similarly, given he saw her holster her- formally his- gun and allow her hand to wander slowly and discretely to the back of her belt where her throwing knives were tucked away.

Something about her posture stiffened suddenly, and he cast a quick glance her way. Perhaps she had a plan. Lord knows he didn’t.

“Clint,” she said cautiously, voice low and serious. “Didn’t Banner say the virus isn’t naturally airborne. And that’s why they needed to create a weapon to disperse it?”

Everyone in the room froze, breaths held and grips on weapons tightening. In that small frigid room, everyone heard what she said, no matter how lowly she’d said it. One second ticked by, then another, the tension heavy and suffocating and palpable.

“Kill them!” The shouted order rang through the lab, and then four AIM agents were charging at them from the dias.

Clint immediately shifted his aim, finally releasing the string and the tension in his shoulders with an exhale. The arrow sank deep into the shoulder of the nearest agent. With a flash of silver, Natasha’s blade spun through the air and came to a halt with its narrow handle protruding from another agent’s throat. He went crashing to the ground. That was all the time they had before the last two were upon them.

Clint shifted his weight to the side and swung his bow at the face of the next agent upon him, landing an unforgiving blow with a dull thud before he landed a kick to her sternum and sent her tumbling back, away from Natasha. The agent collapsed to the floor, unmoving. Natasha was leaning against the wall behind them, another knife in hand, but he knew she could barely stand, much less engage in hand-to-hand combat.

Clint stepped purposefully in front of her, dropping his bow to the floor as the fourth and last standing AIM agent barreled at him, swinging wide with a blade in hand. Clint ducked the first swing only to half-block a punch from the other fist to his solar plexus, causing Clint to double over slightly with a gasp. He still managed to stumble back and away from the next stab of the knife, grabbing the agent’s wrist and angling it away as he did. Clint stumbled back again, losing his footing due to the sheer weight of the man as they grappled for the knife until Clint’s back was shoved against the wall painfully, stinging cuts and bruises protesting.

The agent nearly had the blade directed at Clint’s throat when, with a flash of movement, Natasha had reached across them and buried her blade in the man’s neck just above the collarbone. She ripped it out ruthlessly, and Clint’s chest was splattered with the spray of bright red arterial blood as he slumped back to the floor.

Clint turned to Natasha, breathing hard, heart racing. “Thanks,” he gasped between breaths, stooping with a wince to pick up his bow.

“Don’t mention it.”

It struck him again that she really didn’t look any better. Actually, she was understandable worse. They needed to get out of there. But then there was their target and the deadly package that their months long quest had brought them to that was currently getting away deeper into the building, and the comms were still dead so they couldn’t alert the others.

As Natasha steadied herself against the wall, Clint stepped toward her, extending an arm. In that moment, Clint saw movement from one of the agents on the ground in his periphery, and his world stilled to slow motion. In the span of a heartbeat, he saw Natasha reaching for him, his own arm going around her shoulders. He was turning, too slowly, to see the agent with the arrow in his shoulder- the first he’d shot- flinging his arm forward. An arch of flashing metal in the air toward him. Natasha’s face, realizing. Too late. Clint jerking back, throwing an arm up. And Natasha…

Both of them falling to the ground as Natasha lurched sideways into him, shoving him away with the rest of the strength she could muster, falling with him, across him, into the trajectory of the blade.

“ _No!_ ” he yelled, throat raw as he objected, as he tried to stop her, but it was all too slow, too late as it happened. He didn’t see it hit. His eyes fixed on her face, he hit the ground on his back, Natasha beside him, watching as she paled even more, the breath leaving her in a quiet gasp, her body sagging to the ground.

In that same second, as they hit the ground and pain he barely had the mind to feel lanced through his body, he was rolling to his knees, bow in hand, arrow drawn, murder in his eyes as he spun on the man he’d discounted. The AIM agent he didn’t see coming. The one who’d just made his last mistake. Clint released the arrow and watched it bury itself deep in his heart. He died with a look of terror on his face- a mirror reflection of Clint’s own, beneath the surge of rage.

Clint threw his bow aside and turned back to Natasha’s still form, gently moving her from her side to lay on her back as he knelt beside his partner. Her eyes flew open in a panic, chest rising and falling in labored rapid breaths. A knife handle, the blade sunk all the way to the hilt, protruded from her abdomen, just above her hip.

And it was red everywhere. So much blood, flowing across her body and pooling on the floor and running through his fingers as he tried desperately to stem the bleeding.

“Tasha, _Tasha_ , fuck.” His voice was strangled and he felt like he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t force the air out of his lungs. “Tasha, no no _no_ Natasha _look at me_. Look here,” he begged her, tilting her head toward him with one hand, leaving a bloody streak across her jaw. “Just focus on me, okay?”

She coughed, shallow yet convulsing, her eyes shut hard before she finally opened them and met his gaze. “Still,” she managed to cough, blood staining her lips. “Still not a damsel-” she panted “-in distress.”

“I know,” gasped, looking around desperately for something to compress around the wound. He couldn’t remove the knife or it might do more damage. “We both know I’m the damsel in this relationship,” he got out with a strangled laugh at the end. Eyes landing on the nearest fallen AIM agent, Clint pulled his own knife to cut and rip the jacket from his body as quickly as possibly before turning back to Natasha, her hands clawing at the knife and-

“Nat, don’t!” But it was too late. With a breathless cry of pain, she yanked the knife from her, hands slick and dripping blood as she dropped it aside. “Fucking hell,” he swore, diving back to the ground beside her and balling the fabric up, pressing it to her jagged wound with his weight leaned over her. “Goddamnit, you shouldn’t have done that, Tasha,” he rasped, breathing hard as he tried to suppress the panic rising bitterly in his chest, constricting everything else..

“S-sorry,” she panted, her shaking red stained hands moving over top of his.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he tried to reassure the both of them, voice shaking, his whole fucking body trembling. “Oh fuck man, okay, I’ve got you.” He pressed harder, bunching the bloodied compress up more, cringing and swearing as she gasped in pain, tears rolling down the sides of her blood and dust streaked face, her skin ashen in color now. “Hey, it’s okay, it’s gonna be okay. I promise,” he choked out, jerking his head to the side to wipe his face and his own tears on his shoulder.

“Clint…” It was barely a rough whisper.

“No, it’ll be okay. Cap or Stark or someone is gonna get here any minute, and we’re gonna get you out of here, okay? You’re gonna be fine,” he insisted, voice breaking.

“No, Clint,” she said quietly, calmly, squeezing one of his hands weakly. “It won’t-”

“Natasha don’t you dare-”

“We both, know,” she continued, coughing. “Not,” she gasped, “not this time-” she tried, but her words faded out, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” he demanded. “Nowhere, no right now, not without me you’re not,” he swore, throat raw. “Tasha, Tasha come on, keep your eyes open. Look at me damnit- fuck.” He bit back anything further, inhaling sharply and trying to think, to calm down, not that it helped his shaking limbs or his skyrocketing pulse. “ _Fuck_ Nat, you shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have- never for me. Not for me. Why the fuck did you _do that_ ,” he swore, confused and irrationally angry and panicked as everything spun out of control. She was slipping away from him.

“Shut up,” she rasped, eyes open again but distant as they flickered over his face. “Shut the fuck up. Would do it-” she was seized by convulsing, choking coughs, spitting up blood, her breathing even more shallow and labored. “Would do it ‘gain,” she swore breathlessly as she grabbed his wrist harder. Her words were slurred, but she was adamant. She needed him to listen.

She knew it wasn’t good. In fact, it was rather bad. All of the pain that had almost paralyzed her had faded to a distant numbness. She only felt a blunt muted pressure where Clint tried desperately to stop her from bleeding out. He hadn’t given up on her yet. She knew he never would. But she was cold. She couldn’t have moved if she wanted to, her senses dull and body heavy, lethargic, and she was so, _so_ tired.

Perhaps she would have been surprised if she were capable, but it struck her that what she _was_ feeling, twisted and heavy in her chest... it wasn’t so trivial as the fear that she was dying. She had made her peace a long time ago.  And while she had no idea what came after, she was certain that whatever it was, she’d seen worse. Still, she was terrified, and even now as everything dimmed and faded away, it clawed at her, desperate, running out of time.

She was terrified that she was too late. That he would live the rest of his life with the burden she put on his shoulders. And of course, because the world hated them, because fate just couldn’t let them catch a break, it took her dying in his arms to bring this- them- to a head.

“Did it,” she murmured, watching his face through hooded eyes even though it was all blurred, her whole body shuddering. “Cause I love you, fucking idiot, идиот.” She’d said it before, but she’d never told him. Not until now. Finally. “It was, a long time coming,” she tried to say, but the words may have been coming out slurred, mumbled and quiet and he might have said something but she honestly couldn’t hear it, couldn’t focus on anything anymore.

Ironically, she had thought before that saying it aloud might kill her, but it currently looked quite the other way around. And once she had said it, the words disjointed and quiet, intermingled with Russian, but so very _right_ when they tumbled from her lips, she couldn’t stop saying it. “I do, клянусь I do, I swear. An’, I’m so fucking s- sorry, Clint,” she managed to choke out, her breathes shaking and tears still leaving trails over her temples and into her blood matted hair. “I’m- I-”

She could hardly breathe now, much less force the words out of her throat. She was spinning, drifting away, but she felt him there, holding her close, and she couldn’t make out the words but his tone was soft, soothing even though it was distressed. She tried to put his face in focus, tried to listen, but it was like she was underwater.

And she was losing the battle to stay awake.

She tried to hold on, for his sake if anything. He never gave up on her. Still wasn’t. It was the least she could do. But slowly, so slowly, she felt the numbness dragging her down, down, until every went dark and faded away. 


	17. promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry. I've been busy, but I serious meant to have this out sooner.  
> Also, haha, remember when I made an estimate about how many chapter would be left... well, just don't take my word for anything guys. Not how long it'll take me to do something, not how much is left. I knew/know where I'm going, I have an outline... It just, gets kinda long. And I'm no good at cutting. BUT I really, seriously, really do think there is just ONE LAST CHAPTER. I really think so. *sweats nervously*
> 
> Also if you wanna talk clintasha or marvel ever hit me up on tumblr: flightonbrokenwings

The heavy fog that encompassed her- that smothered her- was so corporal, yet so dark and hazy and ethereal all at once, the half shaped forms and flashes of images, people, places, memories she could and couldn’t place, faces she could and couldn’t name, drifting away and dissolving around her. In her more lucid moments of reflection, she couldn’t say if it was real, physical, if it was in her head, if she was awake or caught in a nightmare, if this was what dying was. In those more lucid moments, she didn’t know if she  _ was  _ dead.

She was swimming through quicksand, fighting the simple desire to stop, to relent, to let whatever flashed of consciousness she had left fade away, to sink to the bottom. There at least, the torrents inside her mind didn’t toss her around until she had lost whatever little bearing she might find. There, the tides didn’t beat her bloody with the lost and flailing bits of memory and flares of senses- disjointed and muddy sounds, broken words and phrases, and feelings- like driftwood dashed against a struggling swimmer in a storm.

But while she couldn’t place it- not why, not where or when, or even the desire or instinct in the first place- she knew it wasn’t an option. And so she fought upward, toward the surface, toward the extended hand and the man extending it she saw in the rare glimpses of sunlight that shined through the murky depths, warm and light and beckoning her.

Slowly, without any sort of recognizable beginning, a steady beeping wove its way through the fog, cutting into the gray clouds. It was different; it didn’t belong there in her purgatory with the rest of the clashing unintelligible fragments. It tethered her to what she knew in the very back of her consciousness, sluggish and distant as it was, to be reality. 

The rhythmic beeping of the machine continued. Where Natasha was once left floating, the dull numbness and the blurry weight of her limbs brought her back to the surface, sliding back into her body. 

Opening her eyes, the bleary swath of grey came slowly into focus, lines and dimensions sharper and the previously too-bright light reseeding, her eyes adjusting to the dimly lit room. Absently, she came to realize it was a hospital room in the Avenger’s tower medical facility.

She first identified the patches of squares as the ceiling tiles, orienting herself to gravity once more. Her eyes trailed the lines of the tiles, across to the closed hanging curtain slats covering the frosted glass far wall, then back along the baseboard of the adjacent wall, the light gray tiles, the shelf and television perched upon it. And beside the faded blue color of her cotton sheets, the a hard plastic chair pulled up close and the man only half seated in it, passed out and collapsed over the edge of her bed.

She recognized him. She knew him immediately, and that recognition lit a warmth inside her chest she hadn’t known or remembered she could feel. 

Clint’s arms were folded beside the outline of her knees under the sheets, his head dropped into them, one hand grasping the soft blue cotton and the other loosely clasped over her hand at her side. It was a warm, soft pressure that anchored her in place, even as the exhaustion and the drug induced haze weighed her eyelids down and began to tug her back to sleep.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

When she woke next, it was more familiar, easier, more grounded.

But being more clearheaded also meant the rolling numbness that had held her captive before receded, replaced by a dull throbbing, along with something sharper. Something painful.

That, she recognized, would be the slow decline in the pain medication dosage. 

Blinking blearily as her vision came into focus, she attempted to lift her head from the pillow, wanting to turn to the side, to something more comfortable, to something less exposed. She quickly aborted that action however when her head began to spin, feeling nauseous, her stomach churning dangerously, and when all the loose discomfort magnified into something painful that froze her breath in her chest. 

_ Wait, relax, now breathe _ . 

She inhaled deeply for the first time, closing her eyes shut and swallowing forcefully to combat the feeling she was going to throw up. Or at least she tried to swallow the feeling. Her throat stuck painfully, dry and aching.

“Hey,” came a quiet voice, tired and hoarse but tinged with equal parts faint surprise and happiness. “You’re awake.” Natasha blinked again, and looked up at Clint. He was sitting on the edge of his seat and leaning in close, though he carefully kept a delicate space between them, too hesitant to close it for fear of hurting her, or something else. In the dim light glowing weakly through the closed blinds, she could see his elbows braced on his knees, his shoulders hunched and posture guarded, looking like he had just lifted his face from his hands. “Doctors said you might be soon,” he murmured, a weak forced smile tugging half-heartedly at the corner of his mouth.

After a another moment, he reached out to take her hand again, warm and secure and so very gentle, his thumb making broad comforting strokes over the inside of her wrist.

She tried to say something, but the words caught in her throat, raw as it was, the sound coming out painfully coarse and breaking into a more painful cough. 

“No, no,” he whispered, shushing her gently. “It’s okay, just hold on.” Ever so gently, he helped her lean forward with a hand between her shoulders, supporting her head with the other. He quickly repositioned her pillows behind her, letting her slowly settle back. She wanted to be upset about being treated like a fragile porcelain doll, or at least a little voice told her that’s what she would do on any other day, but she just didn’t have the energy or the will. She signed her thanks instead, her movement shaky and hardly as neat as she was under normal circumstances, but he understood. It was a hard sign to misinterpret.

Smiling faintly in acknowledgement in a way that only emphasized the exhaustion lines on his face, he leaned away to the bedside table and returned back into focus with a glass of water. “Here,” he said, bringing the glass to her lips. “I’ve got it.” He didn’t make any move to stop her when she lifted a hand- the one that wasn’t restrained by the tubes in her forearm- to take the glass and drink, but he never let go of it either.

A moment of silence passed between them in that dark, quiet room. Everything beyond the shuttered windows and closed door couldn’t possibly be farther away or less important.

She watched his face quietly. Beyond the fatigue, he looked pale in the low light, gaunt even, his posture stiff and uncomfortable, white gauze bandages peaking out from the collar of his shirt and the rolled up sleeve of his sweatshirt, medical tape scattered across his forearms, his jaw, elsewhere no doubt. Clint met her gaze for a moment before dropping his head, looking down instead at her hand, which he clasped with both of his own.

“Hey,” he repeated softly, squeezing her hand gently. “You’re gonna be okay, you know? Doctors say you’re gonna be alright.”

She attempted to return a faint smile. ‘You’ve been putting an unusual amount of trust in the advice of doctors then,’ she signed carefully. It was like something he would usually laugh at, usually smile, but it seemed to have the opposite effect.

His eyes slowly dropped back from the movement of her hands to the faded blue of the sheets. Whatever semblance of a fragile front he was putting up managed to falter even worse, distress and something akin to an even more exhausted sense of hopelessness descending across his face like a shadow. “Well, usually there’s a nicer alternative,” he admitted quietly, his voice trailing off. 

She threaded her fingers through his. Clint tightened his grip fractionally, reassuringly, but the inwardly collapsing look on his face, like the very last dregs of strength he was running on might evaporate right then and there, spoke to something more. His other hand resting over the back of her’s, he fell silent for a long moment, eyes downcast.

As much as she didn’t want to, as much as she fought the weight of the morphine on its steady drip, keeping her eyes open wasn’t becoming any less of a challenge. Her eyes barely open, through her eyelashes, she saw him finally lift his head, looking somber when he did so.

“You- ah…” he began to say before stopping himself, looking lost. He glanced down again, suddenly all too self conscious. He took a steadying breath. “You really scared me there, for a bit, Nat,” he said weakly, an uncomfortable, awkward laugh escaping in the candid moment as he exhaled.

She nodded, a slow tilt of her head forward before falling back against the ever-inviting pillows. She didn’t know how to respond to that. He looked away toward the door briefly. The faint light streaming in illuminating the lines and hollows of his throat as he swallowed, working his jaw like he wanted to say something more.

Clouded as she may have felt, it hadn’t escaped her notice that he was hurting. It didn’t take a well trained eye to see that, not when she knew him the way she did, and it wasn’t like he was in any state to even try and hide it. This was her partner, her best friend, and… 

And the red-tinted memories from the battle that brought her there came pouring back. So much of it was blurred together, filled with ashes and pain, one violent burst of action and reaction flowing into the next and the next with no time between. 

But in the end, she remembered that feeling, the staunch, overpowering regret. She remembered him. She could still see the look on his face, hear the desperation in his voice, feel the pressure of his hands as he held her there at the brink, refusing to let go. 

And she remembered what she’d said. Perhaps not word for word, but she knew.  She knew what she had wanted to say long before that moment that forced it past her lips. She had known the words, said them even, but never in a way that mattered. And wasn’t it so fitting for her, she noted bitterly, that it took a near death experience to force her to acknowledge the reality she’d been denying up until that moment.

This was her partner. Her best friend. The idiot she loved more than anything.

And she  _ did _ . She did  _ love him _ .

She hadn’t thought herself capable of the emotion for so long. She didn’t understand it. What she did know of it told her it was a vulnerability, a weakness, a threat. She had slowly come to fear it, to push it and all its agents away, to throw up defenses. But not knowing her enemy allowed it to creep up behind her and hit her with its full unexpected force right in her chest. 

Looking at him, she doubted he’d left her side for more than seconds at a time. Minutes if he had been dragged away, which he probably was, at some point. He was too well patched up, and had teammates who cared too much, to have not been, however not even that had stopped him from coming back, clearly.

This was the idiot she in no way, shape, or form did anything to deserve. 

But there he was. 

The exhaustion made itself known in every facet of him. Then there was the painful tension probably exacerbated by she didn’t even know how long in the unforgiving plastic chair, the pain evident in all of his even modest movements, the bandages that hid the worst of it, the way he carried his side carefully, the mottled bruising and the cuts and stitches just beginning to heal. He should probably have been in a hospital bed himself. Or at least lying down somewhere. Just, not right there, exactly where he was.

That thought sent a pang of guilt through her. Guilt for being the reason he was stuck by her side instead of taking care of himself. And guilt for the lingering, self-indulgent feeling that she was glad he was there, despite it. And recognizing that, only more guilt for it.

When Clint turned back, his eyes were bright, red rimmed and blinking hard as he wiped across them with the heel of his hand. “Nat…”

But even after all that, he still had a breaking point. 

“I don’t-” he started to say before cutting himself off, looking away again quickly. There was none of the familiarity or ease of tone and words that he usually carried when they spoke privately, just the two of them, not that it had been that way between them in a while. And there was none of the defensive faux-bravado reserved for when they spoke around too many eyes and ears either. “I don’t, um…” He shook his head. “Nat I don’t know what you remember,” he said bluntly.

Natasha blinked a few times, hearing the words over and over again but failing to wrap her head around them, and failing to know what to say in response. There were too many different instincts creeping up inside her for a moment, voices whispering directions to assess, approach tactically, be conservative in words and judicious in meaning, but she pushed those aside with prejudice. 

“And, it’s fine- whatever- it’s not like I’m holding you to anything here I mean,” he said in a haphazard rush, stumbling over the words and firmly looking away. “People say crazy shit under duress, and, when they’re in shock, and when they think they’re-” His voice broke, the words dying in his mouth as he just shook his head, breath shuddering and eye too bright. All of the remnant of the pent up draining terror and anger and anxiety that had shaken the very frame of him was breaking through his last walls and sending him careening over the ledge.

This was just them. She knew him. She trusted him. She loved him. Those three went hand in hand, and if she had believed in fate or divinity, she would think it had been quite fatalistically trying to tell her something about that recently. Well… she heard it. 

She reached for him, pleading and desperate to pull him toward her, to touch him, to not let go or push him away so long as she lived. “Clint,” she whispered, voice hoarse and sharp in her throat. “I remember what I said. I remember what I meant,” she said, like a confession. “I remember that I meant it. And I know that I still do.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Dropping his head into his folded arms again, hunched over protectively, insecure and unsure, he mumbled something too quiet and dry for her to hear. It had been a long while before he’d said anything.

“Hmm?” she hummed, actively fighting off the weight of the morphine and the fatigue. “Clint,” Natasha said softly, her hand resting over his forearm squeezing lightly as she tried to draw him out. “Talk to me. Say something. Be angry, or upset, or confused, be something. Just, tell me. Please,” she asked faintly.

He took a deep shuddering breath, scrubbing his hands over his face. “I don’t feel anything,” he said mutely, looking up at the ceiling and scrubbing his hands over his face once. “I don’t- fuck Tasha. I’ve never been this tired. And, it’s not just,  _ this _ ,” he said with a vague motion, “it’s- it’s  _ everything _ .” His shoulders dropping, he laughed dryly. It was a sort of anguished sound without a trace of humor, a hint at the half-hearted protective walls he’d thrown up around him crumbling down. “Can we just…” he trailed off, closing his eyes for a long moment. “Can _ you _ just be okay? I just, want you to be okay.”

The blunt candor with which he said it left her struggling to find words for a moment. Clint took a deep breath, his shoulders shuddering and flinching slightly as he aggravated his ribs. “It wasn’t supposed to be you- not like this,” he said, choking out a breath that was more distressed than anything before collecting himself. “You shouldn’t have- have done that,” he shuddered, exhaling. “So I need you to be okay.” 

“I made a choice, you bastard,” she sighed, no malice or ill will behind the words, only the emotion seizing her chest, her eyes welling with tears that came unbidden. “You’re just going to have to come to terms with that.”

He paused for a long moment, silent. Natasha turned her face away and curled tightly into herself as she tried in vain to suppress the shallow sobs that escaped her, closing her eyes tight against the tears leaving wet streaks down her face. 

The fight had died in Clint’s chest along with the words in his mouth. And that left him just… drained. 

Clint rose silently and walked to the other side of her bed. Natasha felt the mattress dip with his weight as he sat on the edge of it beside her, felt one hand gently brushing her hair from where it clung to her face, the other wiping the tears away as he hushed her softly. One of his arms settled around her back, the other around her shoulders with a hand resting on the back of her neck as he cradled her in his arms against his chest. She hid her face in his shoulder, shaking with every shuddering breath as the tears kept coming. Clint inhaled deeply, pressing a kiss to the top of her head that was nothing more than a comfort and a promise as he held her just that much tighter, still acutely aware of her injuries.

They lost track of how long they stayed like that, in the safety and seclusion that dim room offered them. They stayed until the emotions that had boiled over and burst through the fractured and strained infrastructure of the barriers around them receded. Until breaths had evened and tears had dried. 

Finally, taking a measured breath and exhaling slowly, Natasha signed each letter individually, slowly and deliberately, ‘I’m sorry,’ against his chest. “For everything,” she rasped, her forehead still pressed against his collarbone as she wiped the heel of her hand across her eyes, sniffling and breathing deeply a few times.

She felt Clint shift away from her a fraction, his hands moving to cup her face and make her look up at him. “Hey,” he said, low and still tired, but warm and genuine. “It’s okay.”

“Okay?” she asked. Natasha didn’t have any footing to know what that meant, and had even less the ability to figure it out at the moment. 

“Yeah,” he affirmed, a familiar lopsided smile tugging at the corner of his mouth and reaching his eyes. “It’s- everything's gonna be okay… and, I’m staying right here until it is.”

After all of it, and in the state they were both in, there was still a faint spark in his eye, still the hint of something too clever for his own good and stupid and well intentioned all at once, still an unwavering sense of loyalty. And perhaps still, she hoped, after all of it, something left from before that she hadn’t managed to chase away.

As his hands dropped to her shoulders, Natasha allowed herself to drop back into her pile of pillows, her hands grasping the material of his sweatshirt trying to pull him with her unsuccessfully. He smiled at that, and with some careful adjusting, mindful of the tubes and machines, and tactfully avoiding jostling any injuries as tactfully as exhaustion-dulled fine motor skills could be, he settled back on the narrow bed beside her, tangled together comfortably.

Her heavily lidded eyes were sinking closed against her will, the warmth radiating from Clint beside her and the IV drip only expediting the process. She gave up on trying to stave it off; it took too much focus and energy. ‘Promise?’ she asked, signing lethargically.

“Yeah,” he said with the ghost of a smile. Turning his head to face her, he leaned in and pressed his mouth to her temple, exhaling slowly as his eyes fell closed. He signed slowly along with his words, mumbled against her, “I promise.”

One arm around her shoulders, with the other he wove his fingers through hers. Natasha began to slip back to sleep, her eyes refusing to open when she tried. Before the easy darkness pulled her away though, she felt the light, lingering press of his mouth to the back of her hand. “I promise,” he repeated as he pulled away. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Once more, her consciousness slowly slipped away.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Natasha woke up next to an empty room- a realization that sent a thrum of something related to panic through her before she shoved it aside as ridiculous and unhelpful- and the distant sound of angry voices. It was the type of strained irritation that wanted to be louder, to be yelling, it it only could. Instead it resorted to low swearing and suppressed outward displays of hostility.

Focusing, she was able to make out some of it.

First came Steve’s voice, sounding more tired and resigned that angry now. “-you weren’t even supposed to be out of medical-” 

“You gonna drag me back?” The second voice, which she might classify as rather irritated if not pissed, clicked with her immediately. That was Clint. He wasn’t far. But something was wrong.

She heard a faint sigh from the other side of the frosted glass doors. “No. Obviously not.”

“Good-”

“If you  _ were _ though, you  _ might _ be able to keep putting it off-”

“Bullshit,” Clint swore.

“You can’t just keep ignoring SHIELD,” Steve warned, tone lower now and cautious. “Not when you have a clear directive.”

“Yeah? Watch me. I don’t really give half a goddamn flying f-”

“ _ Clint _ ,” Steve warned more gravely. “You have to. Eventually. Or else they’ll find a way to drag you in and then we lose a lot of options. I know none of us have a lot of trust for SHIELD right now, but this isn’t the time to test it.”

There was a pregnant pause. “Yeah… I know.” Another moment of silence, and then, almost quiet enough for her to miss it, “Fuck,” Clint swore softly. There was no anger in it this time, only something heartsinkingly close to despair. “I’m fucked, aren’t I?”

Natasha lost track of them as the volume died down. She didn’t have long to consider the worst case scenarios regarding whatever was going on before the door opened slowly, the light beaming in and throwing shadows across the floor and wall. Clint saw her, awake, and with a gentle smile that was a little unsure closed the door quietly behind him, submerging the room once more into a low grey darkness.

“Hey, good morning,” he greeted her, dropping down a little gingerly into the chair beside the bed.

“Good morning?” she asked, raising an eyebrow pointedly. Her voice came to her less strained and painful this time.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding slightly. She looked at him expectantly. “It’s, ah. It’s been a couple days since, um, Nebraska.”

She blinked at him, a blank expression on her face. That was to be expected, she supposed. I while passed out in medbay typically went hand in hand with almost dying. “How many days is a couple?”

“Umm,” Clint glanced down at his hand as he began counting off his fingers hesitantly, paused, then began counting off the other hand as well. “Like, a week?”

She darkened her look at him. 

“And a few?” He lifted one hand to rub the back of his neck absently, a self conscious tick of his. “I- sorry. I haven’t necessarily been with all of it either.”

“Mhm,” she hummed critically, leaning back against the pillows. “Are you okay, Clint?” She hadn’t really asked him that yet, not that she recalled. She had given him a thorough once over, yes, and she did so again, but she hadn’t asked. 

She knew every line of him, hard and soft. The way he walked, the way he carried himself, his mannerisms, how he moved and slouched and perked up and exaggerated papercuts to the extent that he wouldn’t get off the couch but would brush off broken bones with his last breath until the fighting was over and everyone was safe. She knew he was injured. That much was obvious. She also knew that he would heal and be fine enough to go and get himself hurt again eventually. What she didn’t know was if he was  _ okay _ .

Clint paused, staring at the wall behind her and biting his lower lip for a brief moment before nodding slowly. “Yeah, Nat. I’m good.” He shifted his gaze to meet hers.

He looked better. More rested, maybe. He had changed clothing, bandages too, was clean, and had possibly even shaved recently. On his own, in that flat in Bed-Stuy, he would’ve been falling apart, she knew. So someone was forcing him into showers and shoving food down his throat at least in her absence.

And though most his movements were still tight, still concealing the uncomfortable wince at the pull of a muscle or jolt of an itching healing wound, there was a weight off his shoulders that had changed him entirely from when she last remembered waking up to find him shaking apart beside her.

And that in turn lifted a burden from inside her chest that she hadn’t even realized was weighing her down for the longest time now.

Still, that aside now, there were other questions to ask. There was something going on and she was in the dark and if there was one place she did not like being it was in the dark. Natasha figured that a blunt full frontal approach was best.

“I heard you and Steve talking.” She let it hang in the air, watching him closely for a reaction.

He didn’t try to hide the faint slump of his shoulders, the tension in his jaw or the way his eyes darted away for a second. “Yeah,” he admitted, monotone and resigned, “I kinda figured that.”

“What’s going on, Clint?” 

He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and running a hand through his hair while studiously avoiding eye contact.

“You don’t have to worry about it, Nat,” he assured her.

“Too late.”

“Natasha,” he warned her off lightly.

“Clint.” Her tone wasn’t hard, but it was sure. He looked up at her.

“I’m in deep shit,” he sighed, shrugging and shifting to the edge of his chair toward her as he spoke. “We both might be, everyone else too, but, mostly me. Probably.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, reaching for his hand, which he surrendered without protest. She weaved her fingers through his, worry etched lightly into her brow. “Why?”

“I got called in.” 

“SHIELD?”

“Yeah,” he said, mouth a straight line. “D.C.”

She paused. “The Triskelion,” she added, more a statement than a question. 

“Yep,” Clint confirmed, shrugging far too casually..

“Fury?”

He hesitated for a telling moment. “Nope.” Another pause. “Sitwell.”

She froze for a second, squeezing his hand tighter. Then, “Oh.” 

He nodded in agreement, looking too tired to care any more, but under the surface there was uncertainty. “Yeah.”

Clint scooted the chair closer until her could comfortably drape himself over the side of the bed at her elbow, folding his arms, dropping his head and burying his face into them. He didn’t let go of her hand though. With her unoccupied hand, Natasha began carding her fingers through his hair, scraping lightly against his scalp as her mind shuffled through the various interpretations and outcomes of what he’s told her. 

“Think you’re in trouble?” she asked despite knowing as well as he did.

“Ha,” he laughed sarcastically, the sound muffled in his arms. “We’re all in trouble. Team’s just lucky we actually got the bastards so SHIELD can’t string us all-” He lifted his head up suddenly. “Oh, wait.”

Natasha looked at him expectantly. “Clint, what happened after I passed out in Nebraska?”

He looked at her blankly. “Oh, fuck. Wow, I just… really dropped the ball on that one. Um,” he offered her an apologetic smile. “We got ‘em? AIM, the officers leading the whole ‘create a bioweapon with the potential to do unspeakable global destruction’ party? We stopped them. Or, more accurately, Tony and Steve did. It’s... well, it’s over.”

At that point, Clint began to explain what had happened the night of the battle after she had passed out slash may have technically died there for a moment from blood loss slash shock slash severe internal injuries.

It had been Bruce- the Hulk, that was- who’d made it to them first via crashing through the side of the building. He’d had the good sense to put the mass chaos inducing smashing on hold to haul them out of there and deposit them back at the Quinjet. Clint made sure to explain that tumbling through the air at “a fuckton miles per hour and going crashing back to Earth” was not a pleasant experience. But she was alive at least so that was something. 

Meanwhile, Tony and Steve had caught up with the lab coat wearing jackasses with the seriously not cool live virus capsule. They weren’t actually too difficult to deal with by then, caught unprepared for their party crashing. The AIM base was already in shambles, most its agents were dealt with or a gentle push away from running for the hills. 

The comms jolted back to life around that point thanks to Jarvis’s sorting out. Sam and Clint evac-ed Natasha back to the tower where they had Stark’s team of medical staff waiting, Tony flew off with the secured virus to the nearest high security level CDC building, and Steve, Thor, and Bruce were left to finish up.

SHIELD got called in. They didn’t really have an alternative. They needed long term and widespread clean up and ground control across multiple AIM facilities, not to mention the targets on their list they hadn’t even hit. (All of that information he and Natasha had painstakingly located, sorted, dated, and categorized was not going to waste.) They had managed to get in contact with Hill however, which was something. They still had at least a modicum of trust in her and the Director. 

Then things got complicated for them. Some people at SHIELD apparently liked what they managed to do, others… not so much. The rest of the team had some cover, given the Avengers were more subordinate to the authority of WSC than to SHIELD, but he and Natasha? As SHIELD agents officially that on paper apparently moonlighted as Avengers- which, for the record, didn’t seem quite fair to him- they were prime whipping post material.

Natasha had the protection of at least already being half dead. So, Clint had been summoned. He had already delayed, already protested, sited extraordinary circumstances, quoted his contract back at them, used favors owed, called in new ones, spent all of his political capital, given excuses, and was  _ this close _ to simply telling them to fuck off. If the worst thing they could do was fire him, he might’ve just quit already. Avenging shit already felt like a full time job. But the thought lurking at the back of his mind was that it  _ wasn’t  _ the worst they could do. Not by a long shot.

It had to happen eventually. It was probably one of those ‘rip the bandaid off’ scenarios. But Clint was never too good at those anyway. 

Clint had draped himself back over the side of the bed somewhere between talking about how his partner had very narrowly escaped death and how SHIELD might just vanish him away to a deep dark hole in the ground sometime in the near future. Pillowing his head on his folded arms, he closed his eyes for a long moment and let himself enjoy the feeling of Natasha’s fingers carding through his hair, dragging a contented sigh out of him.

“When?” she asked, voice soft. He responded with mumbling something incoherent into his arms and shrugging awkwardly. “Clint…” She stopped her hand, pulling away from him entirely when he made a noise of protest and pushed his head back into her hand a fraction to encourage her to continue. 

“What?” he asked, turning his head to the side to frown at her.

“When do you need to leave?” she asked again, elaborating, not that he didn’t already know her question.

He sighed again, this time tired and disgruntled. “Today,” he grunted. “Sooner the better if I don’t wanna get waterboarded for my trouble.”

Natasha exhaled slowly, resuming dragging her fingers through his already disheveled hair. Neither of them said anything more. 

The silence stretched on, warm and comfortable and close like they hadn’t been in too long. It was easy to forget that there was anything waiting for them outside the door that was barely twenty feet away. 

“Natasha,” Clint said hesitantly, breaking the quiet that had settled over them. “I’ve gotta say something.” He didn’t move to sit up, didn’t even look at her, just continued staring at the wall, his head resting on his arms. “And I need you to not interrupt me until I’m finished.”

Something inside her twisted with apprehension, all of the honed instincts for self preservation urging her to back up, to distance herself from him, to hide behind her walls where no one could reach her. No one except him, that was. Clint, the one person who could really hurt her, not because he wanted to but because she had beared enough of herself to him to make it too easy. Too accidental, and sudden. 

Like falling in love.

“Okay,” she acknowledged, guarded, but not distant. She shoved those impulses aside, out of mind. She had expected this. She’d brought this on herself, jumping into what they had and dragging him along only to panic at the last minute before they labelled it as something  _ meaningful _ and to push him away like she did. He no doubt had plenty to say about that. The twisting, sinking feeling in her chest intensified.

Clint waited for a minute, his shoulders rising and falling with measured breathes. When he finally spoke, he wasn’t angry, wasn’t upset or disgusted or frustrated or any of things she might have expected him to be. He was just quiet, and genuine, perhaps a little hurt, tired of course, but mostly he came across as unsure- as vulnerable of all things- which… she didn’t know what that meant.

“Nat, I need you to-” he started, before frowning and starting over. “You can’t keep trying to protect me- to save me from things. Not from SHIELD, by walking away like that because- because I don’t know- because you didn’t want to mess up us working together or somebody finding out what we were… but you did that before we even  _ were _ anything, you know? And, you definitely can’t try and save me from myself, like with the Blackbriar thing and trying to keep me out of the line of fire. And,” he sat up suddenly, rubbing his eyes hard with the heel of his palm. “Fuck Nat, you sure as hell can’t do it like  _ this _ .”

“Getting yourself killed-” He took a sharp breath. “I know you said that it was your choice to make, and, hell, I can’t even promise I wouldn’t have done the same thing, but… No. Never like that. You do  _ that _ ? That won’t do me any favors. It wouldn’t save me any pain. You’ll just hurt more than you help, every time.  _ Every _ time,” he repeated, quietly but vehemently. “And,” he added quickly, as if it had just occurred to him, “you don’t have to say anything. Don’t apologize, please don’t fight me on this either. I just… yeah.”

There was another drawn out pause, not tense per say, but the air between them was heavy. His elbows dipped into the edge of the mattress as he dropped his head into his hands. “That’s all I wanted to say,” he finished, clearing his throat. “Thanks.”

Natasha felt frozen in place for the longest time. In a few minutes she could get a read on just about any given person, know their concerns, their fears, their loves, their expectations, their mood. But in herself, all of these things were foreign to her. Clint… he was like an open book to her. Even then, she still never saw any of this coming. She never saw just how fucked up that it- that they- would get. 

It was her biggest regret. Especially because hindsight was always 20/20. It seemed obvious looking back where she had come to the wrong conclusion. And then the next one. And that led to the next.

“ я понимаю,” she finally said. “I know. And I  _ am  _ sorry, Clint,” she said. She meant it, needed him to believe it, more than she could recall meaning anything. “I never meant for any of this to happen...”

But before she could stumble over any more words, he was right beside her, sitting on the edge of the bed and wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close again. She folded into him. She would never say it out loud, but the one place she felt safe- not just safe from harm but  _ right _ , and home- was right there, against him, his arms around her. “You don’t need to say anything else,” he sighed. “Time for moving forward, right?”

Her only response was to nod mutely in agreement. They’d said a lot, been through enough. They were tired in more ways than one. They still had issues, problems to face, but not with each other. For the moment, there was nothing else to do or say or worry about. Nothing that would do any good, anyway. 

They both settled back into their positions from the night before, Clint stretched out beside her, Natasha propped up against the pillows and turned into his side with her arm draped over his midsection and his arm around her shoulders, fingers drawing lazy circles along her arm. 

Natasha hadn’t noticed that she had dozed off until she was gently tugged back to semi-alertness by a soft hand brushing across her forehead and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. Clint was sitting up beside her, drawing the blanket up over her. 

“Hey,” he whispered, leaning in close. His hand dropped to her shoulder to dissuade her when she started to sit up. “Stay put. It’s okay.”

“You’re leaving?”

He looked troubled for a moment, apologetic. “Yeah, I have to. I have a flight to catch. Sorry, Nat.” He paused, meeting her eyes and sharing a small but warm smile. “You know I’d rather stay.”

Natasha nodded, saying “I know.” She reached across the narrow space between them, burying both hands in the soft material of his sweatshirt and holding on tightly. “Just be safe. Be careful,” she stressed, drawing him toward her with a weak tug to which he willingly obliged until they were mere inches apart. “And come back soon,” she whispered, low and insistent, her breath ghosting along his collar.

“Preferably in one piece, I know,” he said with a smile that was possibly more  _ him  _ than anything she had seen in a long time. “I told you, I’m seeing this through. I’ll be back before you know I’m gone,” he said hopefully. When she didn’t react to that, his expression fell into something more serious. “I keep my promises.”

“I know,” she said in response, lifting one hand to rest at the back of his neck.

Natasha detected the faintest hitch of his breath in his chest- and couldn’t truthfully say her own was steady- as she tugged at him lightly once more, pulling him forward slowly, lightly, giving him the opportunity to duck out of it again and again. Leaning forward and over her, his hands dipped into the mattress on either side of her as his weight shifted forward. Natasha tilted her face up and her mouth met his in a chaste, unhurried press of lips.

It was brief and soft yet lingering, with eyes drifting closed and fluttering gentle touches, neither wanted to let go but knowing it couldn’t last. Yet again, it was a promise. 

Clint pulled back slowly, but her arms around him were still holding him there. Natasha ducked her face against his shoulder, pressing her mouth to the side of his neck.

“I love you, Tasha,” he whispered against her hair. 

“I know,” she repeated, smiling against him. Without saying a word, she pressed a sign against his back. It took him a moment to realize what it was, but she felt him straighten the barest amount when he did before easing again, holding her just that much tighter. One simple hand gesture. ‘I love you.’

While Natasha would have given just about anything to prolong that moment, he had to go. A few minutes later, and they were unhappily disentangling themselves. With a long glance back that spoke volumes more than spoken word or sign language ever could, he turned and was gone. The door closed with a gentle thump behind him.

Natasha pulled his sweatshirt around herself tighter. 


End file.
